Swords of the Heroes
by Daniel K. English
Summary: Three years after the Holy Grail War, Emiya Shirou finds himself stranded in a foreign land. This land is where monsters roam, where man is prey, and where the silver-eyed witches reside. [Warning: An alternate F/SN continuity is used!]
1. Into Rabona

_There is an old story  
lost in turbulent times  
about the strongest swords  
buried in the mountains._

**Chapter One: Into Rabona**

The warlock fled into the city. The hunter followed.

In the empty streets of Fuyuki City, where only three years ago the fifth and final Holy Grail War ended, the world that existed in the background of society continued onward. With the Holy Grail gone, the magi families from across the world that once concentrated on the War gradually shifted their focus to other pursuits. In fact, save the guardian of the land, the Tohsaka family, only a handful of magi remained in the city.

But that did not mean the city's three-hundred-plus year history with magic would end.

The end of the War meant only the end of an era.

The warlock's intentions followed these lines; the hunter, aware of this, intended to stop him. _This time, surely._ The existence of magic had brought tragedy after tragedy to Fuyuki in the past—including the Great Fire that consumed half the city before extinguishing. It went unsaid that the continued presence of magic, especially the presence of a warlock—an unsanctioned magi—meant more trouble lay in the future. Clutching his bow, the hunter cleared uneven rooftops, his leaps and strides carrying him distances unachieveable by normal humans. The warlock, hiding in the shadows of the city, moved as quickly as he did, as if gliding low over the concrete.

And as the chase reached the docks, where the waves lapped softly against the port, the warlock turned, his face still hidden behind his woolen shawl.

An arrow flew straight at him before shattering in midair.

Two more arrows, shot simultaneously, met the same fate before the hunter quietly leapt from a warehouse and onto even ground. The hunter watched the warlock from two dozen meters away.

"You are not the guardian of the land," the warlock said.

The hunter said nothing.

"I warded the docks, you see. Intruders will feel a compulsion to approach me."

An arrow materialized in the hunter's empty hand before being notched into the bow. The arrow flew, then slowed as if it passed some invisible territory. The warlock's eyes widened as his barriers shattered like glass, letting the arrow fly straight into his throat. With a bloody choke, he fell, writhing in a growing pool of blood. But the hunter simply summoned another arrow, eyes narrowing as he stared into the distance.

"Not fooled, are you?" The warlock studied the hunter quietly. A black facemask and hood. A strange black bow of unknown origin. A Kevlar suit. The equipment let the hunter camouflage in an urban environment. It worked more so at nighttime. "My name is Herman von Grimm. Who are you?"

His answer was an arrow to his heart.

It shattered against a strengthened barrier.

"It is impolite to attack like so." Herman turned his gaze to the rooftops in the distance. He raised a gloved hand and gestured. "There you are."

Light engulfed the docks.

The rooftop Herman had gestured to was now covered in debris, smoke and molten steel. The hunter, however, was nowhere to be found. The decoy the hunter had sent was now a simple knife rocking on the ground.

A ghost of smile crossed the warlock's face, concealed by the scarf. "You're quite good at this," he said, sure that his opponent remained in the vicinity. "Your tactics match the testimonies of the other participants. You don't happen to be acquainted with the Holy Grail War, are you?"

Herman whirled before the hunter could plunge a sword into his back. The blade, gleaming in the moonlight, penetrated Herman's barrier with ease before burying straight into his heart.

"That was close," Herman's voice echoed. "I say I am good with illusions, and will be doubly careful around you.

"But please, do let us talk. The guardian of the land is a well-mannered girl but has yet provided me with any information regarding the War's champion." There was a pause in Herman's words before he continued. "You see, I should have been part of that War. My family hails from a long line of magi that has existed since Germany was a collection of tribes that clashed with Rome's legionnaires. I had a vested interest in participating in the War.

"But by the time I reached this backwater city, the War was already over."

White beams cut the docks from the rooves of several warehouses. The hunter danced about them as they carved molten lines in the ground.

"Understand," said Herman's voice, "that I only wish to fight the victor. A clean fight, like the one I should have gotten in the War. That is my purpose in life. Win or lose, I will return home."

The hunter notched an arrow and shot it into the distance. The beam extending from the furthest warehouse stopped. The other beams, too, ceased.

"Your mastery of the bow is commendable. That shot was done without magic, I see."

The hunter raised his bow defensively as a hound covered in molten lava appeared and lunged at him. Its jaws enclosed over the bow and, with a display of great strength, snapped the weapon cleanly in half. The pieces of the bow disintegrated as the hound lunged at the hunter again, a furious fire blazing in its eyes. A longsword met the hound's attack, skewering it cleanly through its throat and down its ribs.

More hounds pulled themselves out of the ground, forming a loose circle around him. They attacked him as one, and he retaliated with swift efficiency.

"That sword of yours is quite an artifact. My hounds are usually quite tough." As the hounds fell, more took their place. A mass of barking and growling creatures swarmed the hunter, overwhelming him with pure numbers. The air shimmered and Herman emerged, watching with detached interest as the struggling figure disappeared beneath a mass of fur. "Don't take it personally, my quiet pursuer. The guardian would be upset if she knew of my continued presence. I hear she has quite the fiery temperament, and I want not to risk facing those spirits she tamed."

Herman turned to leave. His hounds would take care of the remains.

_I͏̸ ̶̕a̢̛̕͞m̀̀͞ ̛t͏͞h̵̨͢͝é̡͏̵̵ ̡̨͡b̢̢͢ó̸̧͢͠n͘è͝ ̸̀͠ǫ̶̸́f̵̧҉̀ ͡͡m̢̧͝͡y͟͠ ̴̴͘͢͟s̸̴͟w̷̕o̷̴̧͢͝r̀̀͠d͠҉—͘͏_

The wind blew gently before roaring.

Herman stumbled as a great gust buffeted him. From the corner of his eye, he saw the hunter rise despite the hounds. He broke into guffaws. "I knew it! You're the champion of the Grail, are you not? The very person the guardian did her best to stop me from seeing came to me of his own violation."

The pile of hounds split as something blindly fast broke through, cutting through the warehouses with the strength of a natural disaster.

The illusion vanished. Herman rose from the rubble of a warehouse at the other side of the docks, coughing and laughing. His scarf and fedora were gone, revealing a man in his thirties with dirty blond hair and light blue eyes. Handsome save the madness glinting in his eyes.

"Yes! Yes! This is how it should be! The fight I _needed_—!"

Herman glanced upward as the hunter descended upon him, silver and gold eyes shining with cold brutality.

"To our battlefield!" Herman howled.

Then, in a flicker of multi-colored light, the docks were empty.

* * *

He awoke in a cell. He had no idea where save the fact that he had been captured.

But what happened? He had no memory of anything save—

_To our battlefield!_

He remembered everything and gritted his teeth. Shutting his eyes, he reached deep inside himself and tugged at the connection to the Grail he had gotten accustomed to the past three years. Prana trickled into his depleted circuits through the connection, though the warm presence of the Grail now felt slightly colder, as if it had grown distant. That was a bleak sign. Even in the United States his connection with the Grail didn't change.

A surging heat raced across his body. The cuts and bruises on his body healed over. When the faint thrumming in his chest receded, he opened his eyes.

It was dark, wherever he was.

There was a single, barred window. It told him a few things. For one, he deduced he was relatively close to the ground from the angle in which he could see the surface. It was nearing dusk. The air was fresh, much like the countryside. How far had Herman taken him from Fuyuki? Just as he was about to force his way out, heavy footsteps reached his ear. The dull groan of metal reminded him of the War, of how Arturia's armor made that soft sound when she wandered his home.

A shadow grew on the wall across his cell. He tensed.

It wasn't Herman. No, instead it was a young man in his twenties. While the young man too had blond hair, it was short. His facial features were different. Light brown eyes stared back at him from the metal bars.

"Who are you?" the young man asked.

He hesitated. "Archer."

"Your real name, please."

"I would prefer Archer, if you don't mind."

The young man sighed. "Fine, Archer. My name is Sid. I am a captain of the Holy City's guard."

"Sorry. Which city?"

Sid raised a brow. "The Holy City." When he got no response, he frowned. "Rabona, the City of Saints. You must be from the mountainside if you've no idea what Rabona is."

"Sorry."

"No matter. I would like to know how you got into the city."

"I don't know. I don't know where I am."

"You're in the city's dungeons—"

"I know that. I don't know where I am in relation to where I am from." Archer thought about his next words. "I was fighting this man, you see. One moment I am about to win, the next I awake in this cell."

"You are lying."

Archer answered unflinchingly. "I'm not."

"It certainly isn't the _whole_ story."

"It isn't," Archer admitted.

"We found you in the middle of the city after a great flash of lightning struck," Sid said.

"Was there a man with me? In his thirties, with a black coat, hat and a scarf?"

Sid thought for a moment. "No. None that I recall."

"I see."

An uncomfortable silence settled between the two. Sid spoke up. "You are not from around here, are you?"

"What makes you say that?"

"You look different."

"We all look different."

"But you even more so. And you... hmm. Tell me: do you fight?"

"Is that a recruitment pitch?"

"Perhaps. I don't trust you at all, but I cannot deny that you look nothing like anyone I have seen before. Your eyes are shaped differently and your skin is quite dark. If you said you were not from here, I would have no choice but to believe so."

Archer said nothing.

"Hmm. Right. So, do you know how to fight?"

"Yes."

"With a name like Archer, you must know how to use the bow. Your body shape suggests you are familiar with close combat as well."

"And?"

"Lately, the yoma have been vicious. We've lost three men this month alone. I will help grant you citizenship so long as you serve in the guard for, let's say, two years."

Archer didn't know what to think. He was still disoriented from his encounter with Herman. But from what little he knew about the context, what Sid was offering him was not entirely a bad deal. Most importantly, it was a chance to get information for relatively little cost. "I thought you said you didn't trust me."

"I don't. You will be under watch until I am convinced."

"And if I refuse?"

"You rot in this cell until someone remembers you."

"Hmm. I suppose I have little choice but to accept."

Sid grinned. "Good. Galk! We've got a recruit. Oh, and one more thing: if you betray us, your head will be on a pike outside the dungeon."

"I'll take that into consideration."

A large man, standing at least a head taller than Sid, emerged with the jingling of keys.

"Can we have your real name now?" Sid asked.

"It's Shirou."

* * *

The large man named Galk led Shirou out of the dungeon. It was after his first look at Rabona did Shirou begin to comprehend his situation.

Thatched cottages clustered in circular—often disorganized—groups were an odd sight to behold. The walls in the distance reminded him of Europe's castles. He was looking at a nearly textbook example of a fortified town from the Middle Ages, from design down to the smallest details.

Galk mistook Shirou's surprise for amazement.

"Quite a large town, isn't it?" Galk's deep voice seemed to move the earth.

"It's certainly new to me."

"The city's guard protects tens of thousands of people living in these walls. The yoma try to get in every day, because this city is a feast for them." Shirou tilted his head upon hearing the word again. _Yoma._ From Sid words, he could only guess that they were hostiles. If the city were a feast for yoma, then were these yoma some kind of monster? "Don't worry. We'll make sure you're ready to fight before we let you go. We don't make it a habit of sending people to their deaths."

His curiosity was getting the best of him. On one hand he could escape. It didn't seem difficult. On the other hand, this information dangling in front of him was irresistible in an odd way.

"May I ask how you treated yourself?"

"Pardon?"

"When we found you, you were quite wounded. Bruiser, bite marks, cuts and scrapes." Shirou was quiet. Galk noticed this and nodded. "Very well. I hope one day you can tell us."

"Maybe."

As the two walked downhill from the dungeons, to what seemed to be the barracks, Shirou noticed people. The citizens of Rabona. Shirou didn't know what to make of their appearance, though in the back of his mind he already knew. Instead of t-shirts, jeans or even sneakers, what he saw were tunics, linen pants and cloth shoes. The setup was too elaborate to be an illusion despite Herman's claimed mastery over them. Shirou remembered a moment when multi-colored lights blinded him before he awoke and swallowed the lump in his throat.

Herman had pulled a Zelretch on him.

He'd never guess how Herman got his hands on dimensional-crossing magic.

"Galk," Shirou said. "Where are you taking me?"

"The barracks," the large man answered.

At the end of a narrow, brick street, Shirou spotted a two-story building guarded by men in armor. He glanced at their pikes and reaffirmed that he was no longer anywhere near Fuyuki City.

Thick wooden doors opened and Galk gestured for Shirou to follow. Inside the barracks was dusty. The windows provided light, and several unlit candles stood upon empty tables. A few men sitting on one side of the room glanced towards the pair, giving Shirou especially curious looks, before beginning a hushed conversation.

"—man from the sky—"

"He's a yoma, I bet."

"—new recruit."

Shirou forced himself to stop eavesdropping. Galk returned with two swords in belts on hand. He gave one to Shirou before calling to the men. "Harold! Get over here. There's a new recruit."

A dark-haired man in his late thirties and a five o'clock shadow shot to his feet. "Righty-o!"

Galk turned to Shirou. "You're going to spar with him. No, don't worry. I'll stop you two before you kill each other. It's just a way to see how well you can use a sword."

Shirou nodded.

Galk ushered him out another door, to an enclosed area behind the barracks. There the man named Harold was already waiting, alongside a few other off-duty guards whom were sitt. Shirou became intensely aware of gazes centering upon him, from the audience in the yard to the men watching discretely from the second floor of the barracks. And then there was Galk's watchful eyes.

"'ello there, new blood," Harold said, drawing his own sword. "Ready?"

Shirou weighed the longsword in his hand. It was far from the best he had held—though most swords paled in comparison to the ones he had seen three-years ago—but a part of him knew he had been spoiled by quality. A part of his mind _clicked_ as he memorized its length. "I'm ready."

"To first blood or a fatal wound." Galk eyed them both. "Don't go too far. Begin!"

Harold took two steps forward. Just out of range of their weapons, Shirou noted. They circled each other as the onlookers called bets. They heavily favored Harold, though a few adventurous souls put their money on Shirou. Then it happened. As Harold's feet crossed, Shirou stepped forward, sword up to fend off a downwards swing. It met and parried Harold's attack cleanly. Shirou's sword lightly touched Harold's upper arm.

"One to Shirou," Galk said. "Very nice. Next round."

A couple of cheers were drowned by a chorus of boos. Harold cursed loudly at his fellow guards before returning his attention to Shirou. "Nice one. You've done this?"

"A little," Shirou answered.

"Begin!"

Harold struck immediately. To Shirou, it happened in slow motion. His sword parried the blow as he stepped into the swing. Harold jumped back the second he saw his attack fail. Shirou took another step forward, trying to lock his sword with Harold's only for Harold to retreat again.

"That's fuckin' cute," Harold muttered.

Harold kicked with his forward leg, striking Shirou's shin, and quickly followed with a thrust.

Shirou evaded the attack instead of parrying. "So kicks and punches are allowed?"

Galk nodded. "So long as the injury is minor."

Shirou stepped forward again, bringing himself in range. Harold punched with his free hand. Shirou blocked with his forearm and struck back with the pommel of his sword.

Harold cursed as Shirou quickly swung downward. The blade touched Harold's upper arm.

"Alright, I've seen enough," said Galk. He nodded in approval to Shirou. "We'll let you take a break while we figure out what to do with you. Harold!" Harold flinched. "Show Shirou to a meal and an empty bed. Keep an eye on him. Understood?"

"Yessir."

"I'll see you tomorrow, Shirou."

"Thank you," said Shirou.

As Galk departed, Shirou turned his attention to Harold. Harold turned the stare, seemed to find something acceptable, and nodded. "Well, that was a nice spar," he said. "Got me good there, I'll admit. But I'm a better drinker than I am a swordsman; I'm sure you'll never beat me at that."

"That's nothing to be proud of!" someone said.

"Get bent!" Harold shouted back. He grinned affably. "Now, Shirou, right? Odd name. Lets get some food in ye. You'll learn how much to _hate_ the gruel they serve here."

* * *

_a/n: Yes, this Shirou is AU. No, I don't have a detailed story on what happened in his Holy Grail War. No, I currently do not have plans to introduce Rin, Saber, Sakura or anyone else from the Nasuverse into the story._

_No, I don't care much for Nasu-ology; I prefer writing something enjoyable over writing something canonically accurate. I don't know if this will be a harem. Probably not._

_And no, I don't know if this will crash and burn again. With the _Claymore_ manga finished, hopefully not._

_7-08-2015: Fixed a word. "pommel", not "pummel". Thanks Guest._


	2. The Monsters in Our Midst

**Chapter Two: The Monsters in our Midst**

Shirou failed to realize how desperate the Rabonian guards were to recruit their prisoners until his first day at the Holy City had passed. And it was by the first week he discovered how desperate _he_ had been to accept Sid's offer.

According to Galk a recruit would expect at least two months and up to two years of training before being given work to do as a guard. Shirou had been assigned duty the very next day. They found light armor that fit him and sent him off to the ramparts. Shirou protested—he didn't even know what to look for. Sid's reassurance that another man on the wall was enough unsettled him to say the least.

So in the morning Shirou made his way to the wall, with three others assigned to watch him. He found battlements that were grossly undermanned. The wall and its twenty-eight towers held a scarce one hundred and twenty soldiers. It was less than a quarter of what he expected.

"Aye," Harold had said, "we're _are_ a bit short lately. Our younglin's keep gettin' killed."

Did that mean the city was in danger?

"No. The casualties just add up over time. The militia can get the numbers we need in case of an emergency and we have the supplies to equip 'em. Our standing guards, though, is another story."

Weren't they risking a breach if their security was too light?

"Aye. We know that. But the only thing that brings men to our ranks is money."

They didn't have enough?

Harold couldn't answer that question. When he found Galk at the barracks later, the captain answered with some hesitance. "The city relies on the fields that surround it for food," he said. "Whatever surplus we make becomes profit. Local craftsmen and artisans, as well as merchants, contribute to the rest of our economy. We need men to protect the fields, the villages that surround us, as well as the caravans that move from village to village. We don't have the men to do everything."

"And you don't have the money to acquire them," Shirou finished.

"Meanwhile we're losing what we have to the yoma."

"That would explain why you recruited me."

"You don't seem the malicious type. And you did join."

"Yes, I did."

"If it makes you feel any better, you are the first to not have spat at us."

And the week passed like that. Shirou followed orders, ate and slept at the barracks, and learned as much as he could about Rabona and the yoma that plagued it. The rest of the guards were friendly enough to him, though Shirou believed it to be his lack of a criminal record here. They did have a playful streak—he learned of a betting pool among the guardsmen on how long Shirou would survive before a yoma got to him. Surprisingly, it was quite in his favor.

"Well, ya did whip my sorry ass," Harold said at lunch. "That counts for something. I've been a guard for nearly eleven years. Been bitten a couple times but that's it."

"What are yoma anyway?"

Harold nearly spat his drink. "What in buggin' hells? What are yoma? Did you just ask that?"

"I have never seen one," Shirou admitted.

"What are, ugh, look. Yoma are monsters. They hunt men, women, children and the elderly and eat their intestines. They're wicked fast and strong. They can also hide by disguising themselves as people. I lost my brother and several friends to those bastards." Harold drained the rest of his cup.

"I'm sorry."

"Just, whatever. What about you? You have family?"

"No. My father and mother died in a fire. The man who took care of me died when I was younger. Since then, it has been me and a guardian of mine."

Harold frowned as he tore into a loaf of bread. "'ny women?"

Shirou drank his gruel. It was tasteless. "Not exactly."

"Not exactly?" A grin grew on Harold's face. "I'd like an explanation, if you don't mind."

"I have a few friends."

"How many? Two? Three?"

"Several?"

"Several!" Harold roared with laughter. "What are you doing here, then?"

"I'm far from home."

"Ah. Well. You can just settle here and find a woman." Harold leaned towards him and whispered, "That girl who works at the bakery is a good choice. Her name's Sherry."

"I'm not interested in a relationship."

"That's what I used to say. Then I grew up and got lonely."

Shirou had nothing to say to that.

"Well, the Capt'n Galk told me to take you somewhere after food." Harold rose, waving at another guard in the barracks. "C'mon. I've been told it's important."

With a nod, Shirou grabbed his bread and left.

He never saw one of the other guards snatch the rest of his gruel.

* * *

"Here we are."

Shirou studied the neighboring houses. Stone and wood. It seemed like a relatively nice place to live. In the distance he spotted the bakery that sold the good bread. "Where is here?"

"Your new home," Harold answered as he pushed open the door.

Sid emerged from inside. "Shirou? There you are." He gestured for the two to enter. Shirou reluctantly followed Harold inside. "This'll be your residence, Shirou," Sid said. "The Fathers wished it so, and we happened to have one available."

That surprised Shirou. The Father were the closest Rabona had to a government. They were in charge of the cathedral at the center of the city, which served in many ways as the center of the city. As far as he could tell, all the guards were religious.

Shirou examined the house. Wooden floors, stone walls, large hearth. From what he had seen so far, it was one of the more luxurious homes in Rabona. "Well I can't complain, but," he turned back to Sid. "Did the Father mention why I needed one?"

"Well you can hardly live at the barracks."

"True. But I could've roomed at the inn," Shirou pointed out.

"Hmm. True. But that's not much to look forward to." Sid reached into the pouch on his belt and withdrew a purse. He tossed it to Shirou. "Your salary, by the way. No, don't bother arguing. We know you'd be strapped for money if you're not from around here—oh, don't give me that look. We're not stupid!—so take your pay early. We'll work you hard for that, but you'll get the money you earn."

"I thought you didn't _have_ more money."

Sid's smile was tight as he placed a hand on Shirou's shoulder. "Then you better work _extra_ hard."

"I don't feel reassured at all."

"Try to be. You're off for the rest of the day. Harold, take this," Sid said as he handed over the papers that were on a table, "back to the barracks."

"Yessir."

"I'll see you two in the morning."

When the door closed behind the two of them, Shirou collapsed into a chair as if his strings had been cut. There was an aching weariness that had settled in his bones since the day he had arrived, and now, alone, he could finally relax.

In the week, not only had he been getting familiar with the city to the best extent that he could; Shirou had also been finding as many clues as he could in regards to Herman.

He found nothing.

That meant either Herman did not come to this foreign world or that Herman was covering his tracks: hiding, waiting and watching. Neither scenario brought Shirou any comfort. He had no delusion in sending himself back save Rin or perhaps even Zelretch himself coming to his rescue. And Herman—well, the warlock made himself known as a cunning man as well as a formidable magi in the time he stayed at Fuyuki. If Herman had been a contender during the Holy Grail War three years ago, he would have without a doubt been the victor. And now all Shirou could do was grasp at straws. Straws he didn't even have.

He rose from his chair and explored the house to keep his mind off the unknown. If anything, the _well_ in his backyard nailed in the fact he was far behind his time. He peeked down it once before setting the cover back over it.

Hopefully there won't be a drought, Shirou mused.

But as he found the bed and collapsed into it—a bit stiffer than the beds in the barracks—the real question that bothered him returned.

What was he to do next?

* * *

"Fightin' yoma 's a lot different from fightin' men," Harold said while adjusting the straps on his chestplate. "Ya see, men you can predict. You know when a man wants to strike because his body moves so. But a yoma ain't like that. They're devils. They don't move which way and follow like a man does. One moment they're far as the eye can see, then next you've got to get your shield up or lose your face."

Shirou listened, reflecting on his own experience with fighting monsters.

A man named Ronald, who watched the patrol's right flank, continued. "Not just that. Some of these yoma be wild beasts. You're fighting a dog or a lion with the strength to crush stone. Hard enough to fight the normal ones; now you gotta fight the yoma kind."

Their rear guard spoke up. "Remember Ralph? Got mauled by one he did."

"That he did," their right flank said. "Took his arm clean 'fore he got a sword through its head."

"Hey! We don't need Shirou terrified yet," Harold shouted. He took a look at Shirou, who maintained a passive expression, and mistook his calm for supressed anxiety. "Look. It's o-kay to be scared. I was my first time out here. But the chances you'll meet one on your first day is teensy."

"I'm fine," Shirou said.

He neglected to say his luck was often that bad. A case of bad luck was how he got involved in the War, after all.

"Good. Now here comes a merchant. We check up on them before we let them go. Keeps security tight so those monsters won't weasel past the walls."

"Harold, you said the yoma disguise themselves. How do you know if someone is a yoma?"

"You don't." Before Shirou could speak, Harold waved to the approaching caravan. The caravan's guards, four in chainmail with swords, noticed them and waved back. The distance closed, and Harold eyed the guards as the horses slowed to a stop. "How ye folks doin'? Any trouble?"

"Naw, road was quiet," one of the caravan guards answered.

"Wish it was everyday."

"If they were we'd be out of a job." They shared a laugh.

"What's on board?" Ronald asked.

The caravan guards looked at each other. A soft, middle-aged man poked his head out of the caravan. "Wheat, salt, fur and some weapons. Also," he glanced back into his caravan, "a sculpture of Teresa and Clare from an artisan in Mona."

Ronald peeked inside, raised his brows and nodded.

Shirou whispered to Harold. "One of them is a yoma I think."

Harold turned a stern gaze in his direction. "What do you mean? How do you know?"

"There's a smell. Like something rotting."

Harold smelled the air. It was dry, but he smelled no rot. He nudged at the men behind him. "Simon, Cord. Do you smell anything spoiling?"

They sniffed and shook their heads.

Harold frowned. "Which one would—"

That was when it happened. Ronald and the merchant screamed. The four caravan guards went bug-eyed as their two horses grew sharp teeth and bit the heads off of Ronald and their client. One of the horses swat its tail—not a horse's tail but a thick tail like a lizard's with teeth at the end—at a caravan guard and scraped off half his face. Chailmail rings scattered like coins on the road, followed by blood and a corpse.

As Ronald's body collapsed, the horses shook free of their harnesses, tearing apart the front end of the caravan with unnatural strength.

To their added surprise, Shirou was the one to react first.

His sword drawn, he thrust at the throat of one of the creatures. He was quick enough to cut it, but then it turned and kicked at him with its hind leg. Shirou dodged, his sword clattering on the dirt.

Harold pulled Shirou back and barked orders. "You three, get with us! Simon, Cord, circle 'em!"

"Fat chance," a horses growled. Its voice was guttural, almost a hiss.

Its partner galloped around the caravan with a cackling laugh, before charging straight at the caravan guards. Horns sprouted from its head, neck and body, tearing at them as it thrashed.

"Shirou, get your sword! Cord with me! Simon, take its rear!"

Harold and the rest of the Rabonian guards tried to box a horse in, but the way its body elongated and transformed made it impossible to flank. A heavy tail struck Cord square in his shield and sent him sprawling in the dirt. His armor made it impossible to stand before the horse plunged a sword-like leg into the man's chest.

Harold took the opportunity to plunge his own sword into the base of its neck, only to get thrown off.

The creature sneered. "You fucking humans think—"

Shirou beheaded it from behind before turning to the other. One caravan guard lay against the broken caravan, bleeding from his arm. The other two guards were desperately defending against the flailing beast. As Harold shouted, Shirou ran forward.

The yoma caught Shirou's movement and kicked a caravan guard at him.

Shirou nimbly evaded before catching the creature's tail against the bladed edge of his sword. The stubbed remains of the tail knocked away his sword, but that didn't phase him. He drew the dagger from his belt and leapt on the horse, hacking away at its back. It roared with fury before the two caravan guards plunged their weapons into its body. Harold and Simon did the same and the combined weight of the five threw the yoma into the dirt. It was chaos then. They stabbed and cut and shouted and cursed until all that was left was a shredded corpse. The struggle had lasted barely two minutes.

"By Teresa! We're alive!" one of the caravan guards huffed as he fell back into the dirt.

The others seemed to share that relief. Harold glanced at Shirou. "So," he said between heavy breaths, "what do you think of 'em yoma, eh?"

* * *

There was a sense of relief when they returned to the city with the help of other guards and caravans.

Shirou watched the others like a hawk as Harold wheezed, having lost his wind when he had been knocked away. Galk had met them with several men at the city's gates. Shirou watched the regretful but detached way the men took away the corpses—though if attacks like that happened frequently, he could understand their callousness. It was draining to see familiar faces twisted in death like that.

Upon hearing Shirou's performance, though, Galk's stern stare took on a hint of approval.

"Very nice. Few recruits get by their first encounter like that."

"I'm sorry I couldn't do more."

Galk waved it off. "We guards put our lives on the line knowing the danger. Fighting for the lives of others is an worthy cause to die for." Shirou remained quiet. Galk didn't understand. "You're probably tired. You'll get the day off if you—"

Shirou shook his head. "That's alright. I'm fine. I volunteer to patrol tomorrow as well."

Galk raised a brow. "You think you can handle it?"

Shirou nodded.

He remained silent for the rest of the day contemplating on the yoma he had seen. Four deaths in two minutes. At that rate the situation at Rabona would rapidly turn dire. Yes, now he certainly did understand Sid's need to recruit more guards. And as abrupt the role thrust upon him was, Shirou found a level of acceptance—and defiance. The yoma seemed fierce; the guards could use his help. And help was the one thing Shirou would always give.

* * *

_a/n: I don't have a regular update schedule for this. I write at home or in between classes._

_And just to repeat, the entire Holy Grail War was an AU. The entire War was an AU. (And no I won't write the details about it. I made that mistake last time.)_

_7-08-2015: "thrust" is the past tense of "thrust". Thanks to Guest. Also a couple other edits._


	3. The Jaws of Demise, Part One

**Chapter Three: The Jaws of Demise, Part One**

Shirou shrugged the bag off his shoulders and began removing his armor. Yoma blood had dried into black crusts that flaked off the metal. It left a foul, pungent smell that nauseated him. He was glad to be rid of it. As he stripped his equipment and left it on the barracks table for the others to sort, the door creaked open. A face that was growing increasingly familiar appeared. Harold strolled inside carrying a woven basket covered in a faded blue cloth.

"Another one, eh?" Harold asked dryly. He picked up the gut-covered sword leaning against the leg of the table. "The other recruits are complainin' 'bout the mess you leave behind."

Shirou blinked. "It's not my fault the yoma bleed when I stab them."

"You can certainly bleed them less."

"Only if they stop struggling."

"I heard what happened. You're becomin' somethin' of a good luck charm around here."

"Harold, I've fighting yoma on every one of my patrols since I've started," Shirou grumbled, rolling his neck. Both heard a crack. "I can hardly consider that good luck."

"Maybe not. But it's not that way to the others."

"What do you mean?"

"The men on your patrols end up comin' home. And all of them thank _you_."

"I'm just doing my job. You're the one who got promoted, _captain_."

Harold grinned and shrugged, setting the sword back against the table leg. "Well, they can hardly promote a man on duty for just a month. You'd be the target of envy—though that might change soon. Do you know how many requests I've gotten from the others to transfer into your rounds? The paperwork is killin' me faster than any of the yoma out there, I'll tell ya that."

"You're just being lazy."

"Here." Harold shoved the basket into Shirou's arms. "Sherry wanted you to have that."

Shirou lifted the cloth. "Bread?"

"Aye. You've got somethin' of an admirer in her." He leaned in close.

Shirou frowned. "Hmm."

"Shirou!" A man Shirou recognized but didn't remember the name of approached them. He seemed awkward. "The guys were wonderin' if you were makin' dinner again."

"You're making dinner again? Why didn' ya tell me?"

Shirou rolled his eyes. "I'm not. Sorry, but I'm a bit tired today. Maybe on an easier day."

The man's shoulders slumped a bit. "It's alright."

Harold eyed the man as he left. As soon as the guard was out of hearing range, he whispered, "Are ya really makin' dinner or what? The wife's been askin' if ye'd come over. That dish with the dried fish really set her to learnin' from ya." He paused. "And I wouldn't mind eatin' that bird dish again."

Food culture—that was one thing Shirou picked up in his month in Rabona. Many of the dishes reminded him of the food during Europe's Middle Ages; bread, cheese, vegetables, few meats and lots of alcohol. The variety available to him was greater than he expected, for as far as he could tell there were no nobles in the city. While bread was the cheapest food available, the other types of food wasn't so outrageously priced. It was a small mercy that he welcomed with open arms.

Then Harold stumbled upon him cooking and everything went to hell.

"No, I'm not making dinner. I'm tired. I'll just make a stew, eat some bread and cheese, and call it a night."

"Oh." Shirou could see the hope disappear from Harold's expression. "Well. That's fine then. We were having a roast t'night anyway." Harold hesitated, licking his lips. "Can _you_ make a roast?"

"Yes, I can."

"Are you _sure_ you're not making dinner? I mean, I can talk to Anne, tell her to—"

"Have a good night, Harold." Shirou glanced towards the dozen off-duty guards who were listening in. He regretted bringing that pie over last week. "Good night, guys."

The door shut behind him. He took a deep breath of fresh air, which lifted his mood quickly. It was times like these he hated how his nose detected magical energy—in this case, coming from the yoma. There was never a chance to figure out _why_, but he had guessed the reason: Herman. Perhaps Herman had engineered monsters like yoma and unleashed them upon this land? It was a farfetched theory full of holes, one being the inconsistency in time. After all, yoma had existed in this land for much, much longer. But Shirou couldn't shake the idea that Herman was somehow involved in the existence of these monsters.

* * *

When many of the Fathers were the gentle, friendly kind who lived for spirituality, Father Mason was not one of them. He had a wizened look, yes. At first glance he seemed not so different from the other Fathers with his balding head and wrinkles. And yet instead of the grandfatherly demeanor many of the other clergyman possessed, Father Mason was a cold, conniving politician through and through.

"Sid," he said as he took his seat at the desk. His office, full of books and parchments, held a single statue of Teresa and Clare. It was quite dusty. "I have heard of a new recruit in your ranks."

Sid guarded his disdain for the Father behind a stoic mask. "There have been a few. Which do you refer to?"

"The one that does not attend mass."

"Which one is that?"

"The one your men have been talking about." Sid raised a brow. "Yes, that one."

"Did you need something from Shirou?"

"So that is his name."

"Shirou has been on duty for a month now. He has displayed great aptitude in his job." Father Mason rose and began pacing the room. Sid seethed within; for one he hated the way the Father played his hand so often, nudging this way and that, like a child playing with a toy. The last thing he wanted was Shirou to be under such an influence. "Did you find something _inadequate_ with his work, Father?"

"No. Far from adequate." The Father shut his eyes. "He needs to attend mass."

"I do not believe he follows Teresa and Clare," Sid said.

"He is a heathen?" Sid nodded slowly. "Then get him _out_ of here."

"Is there a reason why? He does more than his own share!"

"Because the goddesses will not stand for a heathen in this city, where he spreads his unrest and taint! This land is for the faithful, and I will not have anyone _less_ here."

"He keeps my men _safe._ He protects this city better than _anyone_ I've ever seen."

"Sid, child," Father Mason began, his thumb and forefinger pinching the bridge of his nose. "I know how you hate the way I push these issues. It is unbecoming for a Father to be anything but warm and forgiving." Sid held back a scoff. "But you see, if I do like the rest of my peers and look away, I will be exposing the city to a very possible danger."

"Danger? What kind of _danger_ is there?"

"I don't expect a boy of your position to understand the political situation in our fair city. But if you trust anything I say, trust me when I say that your recruit is an outlier that may lead to instability."

"Then explain it to me."

Father Mason sighed. Sid hated it when the Father treated him like a boy. "You understand that the strength of our city exists in the unity of our city's people. Us Fathers lead, you guards protect, and the rest provide.

"This allows us to function as a great machine in this harsh land where the yoma will tear us to pieces if we are the least careful. We count on the teachings of the goddesses Teresa and Clare to guide us all in the right path." The Father turned a studious eye to Sid, who was listening to the lecture rather astutely. "The teachings are strict but fair. It gives us all the strength to continue by faith and discipline. We are united under a single belief.

"In comes your recruit, with a different sense of value. Different beliefs. He proves more than capable against those monsters. The people admire him, pursue him. Ideologies clash. Our order falls apart."

Sid blinked. On one hand, the Father's words sounded much like bigotry. On the other hand, there was a logic in his explanation, a possibility that sounded farfetched—but possible. "I do not believe," Sid said slowly, "that Shirou represents a threat."

"Can you guarantee his loyalty?" the Father asked.

Sid hesitated. Shirou was a mystery even in the month he had been in service. Shirou was a reliable man, but _had_ been a prisoner. The captain wanted to believe Shirou was loyal, and yet the weight of his responsibilities held him back. In the back of Sid's mind, there was always the chance that he was wrong. And when he was wrong, the blood that spilled would be that of his men and the people.

"No, Father."

The Father regarded Sid for a quiet, stifling moment. It was like many years ago, when Sid was a child who had gotten into trouble and was reprimanded in a stern but gentle way by one of the Church's students.

"Perhaps I shouldn't be telling you this, Sid," Mason said softly. "I believe more in survivors than saints."

Sid had a questioning look.

"This world of ours is unforgiving. We need all the advantage we can get. If you can convince your recruit to help us, stay with us, or guarantee me his loyalty, then..." Mason shrugged. "Then I may be able to do something about the Fathers' unrest."

"The other Fathers?"

Father Mason chuckled. It caught Sid off guard—Father Mason never laughed. "You certainly don't think I am the only one to have noticed your friend, do you?"

"But they haven't—"

"_They_ are better at this than I am. It's practically a requirement."

"I-I didn't..."

"You are free to go. May the goddesses bless you."

* * *

It was at the stroke of dawn when Shirou heard a knock on his door. He pulled away from his breakfast of fruit and bread to answer. Standing at the foot of his door was a young woman, shorter than he was by a head. It was difficult to consider her pretty in comparison to the women he knew in his earlier years, but she was definitely more eye-catching than most of the local girls.

Even if she was only fourteen.

Shirley had a rugged head of dark ginger hair, cut shoulder-length by what must have been a knife or crude scissors. It was covered by a white scarf dotted with red flowers. Her lean figure hid beneath a pretty, if large, red woolen dress. Her callous hands clasped in front of her over the handle of a straw basket of bread, a shy gesture that did not match the curious and hopeful gleam in her eyes when they made contact with his. Her face was one he had seen much too often the past month; indeed, she had visited even more than Harold did. If he tried, he could guess the number of freckles she had on her face.

Shirou swallowed dryly. "Shirley. Good morning."

"Good morning to you too, Shirou." She lifted the basket past waist-high. "Mother sends her regards."

"Another? Harold brought the one you sent through him just yesterday." He accepted the basket nevertheless and invited her inside. She entered nervously, her eyes flitting around the house with abject curiosity.

"Mother wonders whether you will be free to help at the bakery later today," Shirley said.

He cringed inwardly. It happened once. The bakery was practically next door, so he borrowed their ovens to make pumpkin pie. The pie was a congratulatory gift to Harold for his promotion. Marian, Shirley's mother, found out and had him bake more for the bakery to sell. They sold remarkably well, and Marian had been hounding Shirou to help out ever since.

Not to mention the not-so-subtle push she gave Shirley when it came to him.

"I will, maybe," he answered. He set the basket on his table, beside the other basket of bread he had gotten from Harold. "My patrol ends early today, for some reason."

Shirley nodded, fidgeting with her fingers until she pried them apart.

It wasn't hard for him to see that she had a crush on him. After Sakura, these signs became painfully obvious. He hoped there would come a time when he could politely turn her little infatuation away, or that she would grow out of it, but that time didn't seem to be soon.

Shirley spoke up again. "And father, he wishes to ask if you would be available for dinner tonight."

He cringed again. After Harold roped him into having dinner with his family—which quickly led to the exposure of his cooking talents—Shirley's family found out and did the same. He figured he had passed some sort of test, as Jonathan, Shirley's father, seemed rather interrogative of him that night.

But could he blame them?

During Europe's Middle Ages, peasant families married their daughters to other families as a way to establish bonds between families. There were political reasons as well as socio-economic reasons for marriage then.

It wasn't too different in Rabona. Shirley's family owned a bakery—which made them _relatively_ well off—but it didn't change the fact that Jonathan and Marian were getting older and that Shirley was unmarried. Even with the protection of the city's walls, families living in Rabona craved what extra security they could get. And Shirou seemed to represent that for Shirley's family; he could succeed their bakery; they would pay little dowry because he had no family; and he could protect them in times of need thanks to being a guard. Save her marrying a rich merchant, Shirou was Shirley's best chance at a more pleasant life.

_No_—it was likely far more complex than that, but that was what he understood.

They didn't _need_ him, but they were close to it.

And as much as he wanted to help them, Shirou couldn't marry a fourteen-year old. Even if girls married as early as twelve. He needed a way to explain that without hurting her.

Before Shirou could respond, a guardsman barged inside in a hurry. There was a brittle edge of panic in his voice.

"We've got a problem, Shirou. Help me fetch everyone," the guardsman said.

Shirou sighed inwardly. "Sure. We'll have to talk later, Shirley."

The girl shrank back, nodding quietly. He pretended not to notice how she lingered near him before taking off back to her bakery.

He grabbed a bun that wasn't too hard to chew from one of the baskets, tossed another to the guard, and left.

The ramparts were alive with activity. Guards arming themselves with swords, javelins, and bows. Guards carrying supplies all across the walls. Shirou found himself swept up in the chaos without knowing what was happening. It wasn't until he climbed to the top of the walls, a score of full quivers in his arms, did he find the cause of commotion.

It towered in the distance like a swaying pillar of putrid grey flesh. Eight spidery legs, each as tall as the cathedral, crossed the valley surrounding the city in slow, sure strides. Shirou blinked as he saw things fall from the monster as it moved. Its skin was _moving._ He blinked again and realized the tower monster carried hundreds of thousands of yoma on it. He vaguely recalled the image of a hairy spider, covered in hundreds of its tiny infants. But this one was less a spider, more a _giant_ virus—stalk, tails, and all. He quietly turned his Reinforcement on, feeling a single circuit flooding with heat. His vision magnified like a long-distance scope. His eyes honed in on the carrier yoma, studying the hundreds of gaping maws that each held thousands of sharp teeth.

What caught his attention lay at the top of the tower of flesh, where he caught the opening of a maw filled with yoma. The sight froze the blood in his veins.

"Incoming!" he shouted at the top of his lungs.

The maws spat. Black masses covered in thick saliva sailed across the sky. Some collided into the walls like cannonballs, causing small tremors beneath the guards' feet. Others flew right over the walls, plummeting straight into the city with thunderous crashes.

One smashed into the parapet. It was a perfect sphere of a black, hard substance. It must have been considering it remained intact after being used as ammunition for what must have been a yoma's improvised artillery barrage. When Shirou's eyes found it, they widened and he drew his sword, opening two more circuits to Reinforce his weapon, his armor, and the rest of his body.

The sphere _unfolded_ along the grooves of its surface. Several spindly legs emerged from within the sphere's tucked folds, finding purchase on the parapet's stone. The smooth sphere broke into smaller, curved plates, sliding beneath one another until the mass reshaped itself into an enormous curled creature. Its head, tiny compared to the rest of its body, swiveled on a thin joint until its bony head locked onto the guards surrounding it. Mandibles stretched, and a thin tendril shot out of its mouth, spearing an unfortunate guardsman.

In the few seconds it happened, Shirou ran, reaching the monster with an unholy speed.

Shirou's sword rang against the monster's shell. The rest of the guards backed away when they saw what they were up against. A brave duo dragged their fallen comrade out of the way.

_Hard shell. A carapace? Too much effort to penetrate it. _

He backed off as the monster shoved its body at him. The tongue lashed out; he caught it with his gauntlet, the Reinforced steel screeching as the appendage dragged across the surface, and swung his sword down on it. It cut off easily, and he threw aside the squirming piece.

He struck at the legs, feeling them break easily.

The monster sagged towards him. His sword plunged easily between the gaps in its shell. Dark blood rushed out as the yoma squealed in dismay.

Then his sword found its thin neck and its head rolled.

As the body collapsed, he turned to the other men. Their stares were a mix of awe and fear. "Hit the legs. Cut off the tongue. Aim for the gaps. Don't stand at its front. Cut off the head and it dies."

They nodded.

He looked over the edge towards the city and saw other shelled yoma in the streets. "Go!"

As the guards scattered, all terrified but organized, Shirou returned his attention to the carrier yoma just in time to see another volley of shelled yoma flying at the city.

"_Damn._"

* * *

_a/n: Sup._


	4. The Jaws of Demise, Part Two

**Chapter Four: The Jaws of Demise, Part Two**

His bow formed in his hand after a thought. Black, sleek, and metallic, the bow was the one unchanging weapon he had. But the bow alone wasn't enough; what he _needed_—

_penetration one homing two splitting one explosive one_

—was the arrow. It materialized in his hand, heavy and deceptively small. The arrowhead glowed a menacing red as he notched it onto his bow with a practiced motion. And with a single breath, it flew.

A single blur raced into the air with a soft whistle. Ten meters, twenty meters, thirty meters, fifty. As it rose, the arrowhead's red glow brightened and the arrow became a gleam of red light. It _accelerated_ towards the volley of shelled yoma before abruptly separating into several other lights, each controlling its flight to intercept its own target. The arrows roared like missiles as they colored red streaks in the sky that punched holes straight through the carapaces of their targets. A series of brilliant explosions ripped over the valleys surrounding the holy city, the combined shockwave sending a rush of air whipping through the parapet.

The ringing in his ears didn't stop Shirou from moving on to his next target: the carrier.

It was large, that was for certain. It was slow, but he was sure that once it reached the walls, the hordes of yoma it possessed would simply overrun the garrison and flood the city.

_explosive two_

He notched another arrow. With a quick breath, he let it loose.

It screamed as it soared towards the carrier. Not a moment later, another explosion consumed the lower half of the carrier, where the legs connected to the rest of the body. He saw the carrier freeze, two of its legs hanging mid-stride, before it marched on, as if unharmed.

_No effect? No, it slowed. It just recovered that fast._

His eyes caught the carrier's gaping wound close up as the swarm of yoma that clung into it scaled its skin. The lesser yoma buried themselves into the broken flesh and _dissolved_ themselves into the carrier to help close the wound. He scowled, brought to bear another arrow—_explosive two burning one_—and fired. There was a difference this time; after the smoke cleared, flames covered the carrier's wounds. It froze, this time staggering as fire ate its flesh. The lesser yoma that rushed to seal the wound found themselves batted by flames of such intensity that their bodies would char and harden seconds upon entering them. But the carrier remained standing, and he was wasting precious seconds he needed to clear the city of what yoma had managed to siege it.

He cast the carrier a look before turning his attention to the city, where he could already see his fellow guards battling the shelled yoma.

It was chaos down there.

Word of his advice spread quickly, but not quickly enough. Some of the guards were trying to herd the monsters to empty parts of the city, but were having a hard time in the narrow confines of the streets. Others were desperately hacking away at them with only a few hitting weak points. The guards were too scattered to coordinate properly, and the yoma were too strong to be taken down alone.

He could count the injured and dead, and both counts were too high for his liking.

_But I can't leave the carrier alive. It will shoot more yoma into the city. I need to consider the bigger threat. If I kill the carrier, the city will have a better chance at survival._

_Even if it means guards will have to die to kill the yoma already here._

He gritted his teeth, tasting the bitterness of his own thoughts, before stringing another arrow into his bow.

And then he saw the impossible.

* * *

Explosions filled the air above Flora as she fought her way into Rabona. She heard the exertions of her comrades as they fought to stay together amidst the sea of yoma. As much as she wanted to slow down, she couldn't. Not now. Her sensory abilities were far from God-Eye Galatea's level, but there were strong enough to inform her that yoma had already breached the city.

The situation was dire. What disgusted her the most, though, were the lack of warriors fighting alongside her. Three—that was how many joined her. Three of forty-six.

One of the lesser yoma jumped at her. Flora's sword drew a gust as it bisected the creature. Several attacked her flanks at once. A moment later, her sword left all of them as dark puddles in the ground. She spared a glance behind her, at the team she found herself leading. A number seventeen, twenty-four, and forty-three led by a number seven; she didn't like their odds. Getting to the city was itself a task, not to mention saving it. But Flora stifled her complaints and pressed on, hoping to get her team to the walls in one piece.

"Damn it, these things are endless!" shouted Yuliana.

"Shut up and keep swinging!" Eliza shouted back.

The job was proving to be more dangerous by the second. At first Flora had thought it was a gathering of small yoma crossing the mountains. Her team would have been more than enough for that. But by the time they caught up to the massive yoma that towered far above them, they were already surrounded.

Their formation, made last minute, was best suited for getting them into city. She led the four, with Yuliana behind her. Taking up the rear were Eliza and Zelda, both tasked with defending their backs.

Zelda was taking the worst of the attack. The yoma swarmed at them from her side, which was closest to the massive yoma, and the number twenty-four was doing her best to kill all of them. From her heavy breathing, Flora guessed Zelda to be at her limit. If they were to fall, Zelda would be the first to.

A yoma caught her eye as it jumped at her. Flora sucked her teeth as she cut it down.

"Flora, we need to rotate!" Eliza said. "I don't think Zelda can—"

The ground beside Zelda exploded. The yoma that were hounding Zelda flew apart, leaving the number twenty-four intact. A series of fast-paced explosions rolled off the carrier, causing it to stumble backwards.

"What the hell? Where are these explosions coming from?" Yuliana asked.

Flora didn't have an answer. She didn't sense any other fellow warriors near them, nor could she believe the city to have weapons powerful or accurate enough to do so.

More yoma dove mindlessly at them. Flora heard a sharp whistle, the hissing of wind, and the yoma were blown away. She saw the blurred shape of an arrow sail by. There was an unperceivable widening of her eyes as something clicked. A tiny smirk made its way to her lips.

"We have support," she said above the booms. "Ignore the yoma. We're headed full speed to the city."

She looked at Zelda, asking the silent question: _Can you make it?_

Zelda caught the look and nodded. Flora smiled, cut down a couple of yoma that got too close, and ran. She could hear her team doing their best to keep up. She caught another arrow flying by her, aimed behind her to the right, and then heard cursing. While she didn't see them all, she knew the arrows kept coming, alternating between covering her and her team. In the corner of her mind, she could _feel_ the yoma presence around her team diminish until the horde around them became navigable.

"Is it me or is this getting easier?" Eliza asked.

"There is an archer," Flora responded. "That archer is currently giving us passage to the city."

"Archer? Where?"

Flora's silver eyes traced the path which the arrows sailed by, pressing her vision as far as she could with her demonic energy until she could barely make out the figure standing atop the walls.

"Who knows?" she said.

* * *

Arrows flew as quickly as they materialized in Shirou's hands, intercepting shelled yoma, striking the carrier, and covering the fast group of fighters approaching the city through the ocean of yoma. His circuits buzzed warmly, feeling wonderful after a month of sparing use.

The party of warriors had nearly reached the walls. He had no idea how to get them inside the city—as gifted as they seemed in dealing with the yoma he doubted they could last _all_ of them—but at least he could keep an eye on them when they were closer. As they disappeared beneath his vision, Shirou let loose another arrow. It was different than the others. As it arced, it split into several red streaks, then again and again until well over five hundred explosive arrows consumed the carrier.

"Amazing."

Shirou _whirled_, his black bow vanishing as the materialized blade in his hand was deflected by a white greatsword. A woman with curled locks of blonde hair that reached past her shoulders watched him impassively. Silver eyes met greying brown.

"Who are you?" he asked, his words as cold as ice.

"I am what you call a Claymore. Number seven." She blinked, her eyes focusing on his empty hand. If she was surprised, she hid it well behind a mask of calm indifference. "Where is your bow?"

"You were part of the group down below. How did you get—" He stopped himself. Was it so hard to figure out how they scaled the wall? He could do it. He knew plenty of others who could do similar things. And from how he had seen this woman handle the yoma, it wasn't such a farfetched thought that she wasn't entirely _normal_. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to see what weapon was damaging that voracious eater so."

"Voracious eater?" he repeated with a raised brow. Crap! He hesitatingly returned his attention to the yoma, watching the smoking husk, reduced greatly from the scale of the previous explosion, begin to move. "Nevermind," he said. "I hope you're here to help. Can you and your friends handle the yoma in the city?"

"Yes, we can."

"Alright." And then, half his mind wondering if he could trust her, Shirou summoned his bow again.

_penetration two homing two splitting three_

He notched the arrow and fired, the wind roaring as the arrow split into hundreds more that all honed in on the carrier. His eyes widened as the penetrative strength he imbued the projectile gouged meter-deep craters all across the monster—then nothing. If he didn't know any better, the yoma's sheer mass and abnormal regeneration was simply too much to overcome half-heartedly. Indeed, the charred areas of its flesh were breaking off in large pieces only to rapidly reform.

"Current attributes aren't enough. Need something stronger," he grumbled.

_homing three splitting three holy five_

A heavy growl rose from the bottom of his throat as his next arrow formed. He felt the heat in his body, flooding through his circuits as he prepared what he _knew_ would annihilate the carrier.

Unfortunately, it happened to be even more noticeable than his explosive arrows.

Punctuated with a sigh, he fired.

* * *

Flora remained silent as the archer turned away, her own sword lowering as he did so. She didn't voice her surprise at the black bow that suddenly appeared in his hand—out of thin air. Neither did she comment on how unlikely it was for him to hit the carrier from such a distance. She wasn't even supposed to be there, standing on the parapet of the holy city's walls. She was supposed to be fighting down below.

Instead she watched with silent awe an arrow fly into the sky, turn into a bright red light that battered the voracious eater with fire. It was hard to believe how such a small thing could do such damage.

And then the second arrow flew.

* * *

_This must be hell_, was Harold's first thought after he drew his mace.

The monster in front of him was unlike anything he had ever seen. Blood ran down its face as a woman, someone Harold thought he recognized, fell in two pieces on the stone-lined street.

The captain struck first, his men at his back.

A crack formed on the monster's brittle leg when his mace struck.

Its tongue lashed out at him, tearing his armor apart like it was wet paper. His left pauldron and innumerable rings from his underlying chain mail clattered onto the street. Harold swung again, catching that same leg and shattering it. The monster roared and, as his men's pikes scratched its carapace, it threw its body at him. He raised his shield only to bounce off the monster's size. He lost his grip on his mace and it fell out of reach. Harold struggled to get up, feeling dazed and winded from his landing.

One of his men had a hammer. The man swung at the carapace and cracked it a bit. The monster's tongue lashed out in retaliation and took that man's arm clean off. Blood spurt from the wound and splattered everywhere.

It was almost surreal as he saw, from the corner of his eye, another of his men hit the ground. This man had lost his leg, the stump bleeding a pool around him.

Harold threw away his shield and retrieved his weapon. He aimed for the legs again, and with a furious rage, snapped them until it fell. The monster didn't go down without a fight; it curled into its body, forming a perfect sphere, and with an impossible strength rolled itself into the crowd of soldiers. One man was unfortunate enough to fall right in its way and was crushed, armor and all.

"Gods save us," Harold muttered. "Teresa have mercy on us. Clare give me courage."

The sphere unfolded, and the monster sent them a mocking glare with its hideous face. Its mouth opened, its mandibles tucked away, and its tongue shot out. A man raised a shield only to have it punctured through and into his heart. The tongue twisted and penetrated the back of another soldier. And another. And another.

Harold grabbed the appendage and tore it open with his teeth. Black blood spewed from his mouth as he screamed, charging at the monster with reckless abandon.

Fueled by anger and fear, he didn't notice another monster emerge from a ruined house until it was too late.

Harold fell into the ground. He couldn't feel one of his legs.

The words that came from his lips were the first thing that came to his mind. "Catherine save us from the unrighteous. Abigail, grant us a way in your infinite wisdom."

He heard scratching against the stone. The monster he had worked so hard to cripple rose as its legs regenerated.

He stared at death's eyes.

_Heavens, hear us._

Time seemed to slow, then.

The sun dimmed. It was as if dusk had suddenly come, despite the day having just started. The sky grew a dark blue, almost violet, and the sun's light turned a shade of red. As he watched the clouds darken, he feared the very ending of the world. It would make perfect sense; with these monsters in the holy city, killing and slaughtering his men like demons from hell, Harold believed the end of everything was upon them.

And yet as the world dimmed, a bright light rose into the heavens. Reaching until it passed the clouds. An intense light, a star on the earth just beyond the walls, washed the darkness away.

The guard captain's hands shook. His eyes watered until fat tears rolled down his cheeks. Even the burning pain crippling his body seemed to fade in the brilliance of what he was seeing. The light intensified before it swept through the city, washing over him with a warmth that seeped into his soul. He could no longer hear the sounds of fighting, the wails of his men dying, or the throaty rumbles of the demons plaguing his city. The heavens saw their plight and answered. Laughter bubbled out of him as that light surged, enveloping everything he could see in white. The monsters closing in on him disappeared as if they never existed.

As Harold lost his consciousness, he had to wonder.

_Is this for real?_

* * *

As the carrier yoma's form vanished in an overwhelming explosion of light, Shirou prepared himself for the fallout. He had his guesses as to how Rabonians regarded magic. Something akin to the Salem witch trials, he imagined. When he turned to see that woman from before staring at the fading aura of light where the carrier yoma once stood, the tiny, impossible hope that _maybe_ no one had seen his little trick disappeared.

_Now, how do I explain this…?_

Flora then snapped out of her daze, her eyes locking with his. What was reflected in those eyes he did not know. They stared for a moment before he saw something in her click.

Gracefully, Flora bowed her head, then lowering herself to one knee. Her giant sword rested flat on the parapet across from her. A strong memory hit him, and he felt immensely nostalgic. He shook it off, lifting his gaze from Flora to the remaining men on the parapet. There were few, but they too regarded him with hushed awe. When Flora knelt, the men looked at each other and slowly did the same. It wasn't what Shirou was expecting—less screaming and far less fire to burn him alive. He felt lost for a moment, wondering what to do, before descending the parapet.

When he emerged from the wall, he was greeted with cheer. _Applause._

He had no idea what was happening anymore.

Civilians and soldiers, clerics and merchants gathered around, hoisting him off his feet and carrying him off. In the corner of his eye, he caught people kneeling—_kneeling_—at his procession, muttering chants to themselves.

As he faced the brightening sky, a stream of thoughts crossed his mind.

_They saw me do magic. The wall isn't so tall that you can't see anyone standing at the top. They saw me do magic, so why aren't they scared?_

_They're celebrating. Why are they carrying me? I mean, I—wait, maybe they think I'm a hero?_

_Maybe they're not scared of my magic?_

His heartbeat sped up. The possibility that he could be accepted by the city never crossed his mind in the past month. It was why he so desperately hid his magecraft. It had worked until now, for he never needed such power to help his fellow guard. As his procession—shouting "Shirou! Saint Shirou!" at the top of their lungs—passed the wreckage of a fallen house, he was struck with the weight of guilt.

It occurred to him then that there were people dead from this attack. The city might not have been overrun, but not everyone made it out alive.

_Perhaps if I had used my magecraft earlier, then maybe things would have turned out better._

As the growing cheers drowned out all other noise, Shirou bitterly reminded himself how far away he was from being the hero he wanted to be.

* * *

_a/n: Papers for English done. Whew._

_I'm anticipating readers complaining _That's not how Unlimited Blade Works works! _I want to head that off._

_My answer: No shit. You think I'm stupid?_

_And please, _please,_ don't spam me with questions on how the UBW works. I'll reveal it bit by bit._


	5. The Jaws of Demise, Part Three

**Chapter Five: The Jaws of Demise, Part Three**

His job was far from over. As far as he was concerned, it was _never_ over. As the townsfolk began celebrate their survival, Shirou slipped away to where the infirmary was in the cathedral.

Disease and poorly-treated injuries festered in the Middle Ages.

The blade wounded. Arrows killed. And disease? It massacred. The bubonic plague and smallpox were only the most noticeable examples.

He could stop that. He _would_ stop that.

Shirou weaved through the crowds, a silent shadow, until he escaped the celebration. His disappearance went unnoticed, so deep in festivities the people were. The streets were relatively empty onwards—likely because everyone had gone to celebrate. Save the occasional soul running towards the festivities, Shirou headed to the cathedral alone.

When he pushed open the doors inside, he was struck with the odor of blood, smoke, sweat, and alcohol. The injured lay on the blankets spread along the pews. The clergy crossed the aisles in a hurry, carrying buckets and bundles to wherever they were going. Not one glanced him. Shirou paced quickly through the pews, doing his best not to look at the dead piled at the side. There was work to be done.

_recovery three_

Approaching the front of the church, where the paths between the pews lead to steps up an elevated platform, Shirou wielded a single blade in his hand. His approach caught the eyes of several of the clergy. One nearly cut him off, but was stopped by the hand of a single keen-eyed man. Father Mason watched Shirou climb the platform and stop beside the altar before the statue of the twin goddesses. Mason _felt_ it on his skin before he saw it, a warmth that rippled from the altar like a blast of summer air.

The sword Shirou had been carrying was left upon the base of the altar. An ethereal glow from the sword almost overwhelmed the sunlight pouring into the cathedral from the stain-glass windows.

Then, Shirou walked away as if nothing had happened.

"You there, guardsman!" shouted a man. Shirou stilled, turning hesitantly to meet the gaze of one of the Fathers. "Come with me. Sister, get me a runner. Tell the runner to send Guardsman Captain Sid to my office."

A nun nodded and left the Father's side.

"Guardsman, come with me."

Shirou nodded slowly. The Father didn't wait for a response; he walked briskly towards the stairs, ascending several sets before exiting on the fifth floor and navigating empty hallways to his office. Shirou followed closely behind, wordless but wary. When they reached the office, Mason let Shirou inside and shut the door firmly behind him. The first thing the Father did was produce a bottle of rum hidden in a cabinet beside his desk, and a small glass. He drank quickly, feeling the sweet liquor run down his throat.

"Would you like a glass?" Mason asked.

"No sir."

"Not 'sir'. You only call your superior officers 'sir'. Address me as 'Father' or 'Father Mason'."

"Yes Father."

"Good." Mason downed another glass. "I called you here because I need to know whose side you're on."

Shirou's stoic expression broke way to confusion. "Pardon?"

"Why are you in the guard?"

"Because I want to help protect this city," Shirou answered.

"Good." Mason poured another glass. "What happened downstairs? You brought in a sword and set it upon the feet of the goddesses, and then there was a—a light? An energy?"

Shirou was quiet for a moment. "It was magic."

Mason's eyes widened. "Truly?"

"Yes Father."

"I see." Mason did not drink. There was a thoughtful gleam in his eyes as he swirled the drink in his glass. "And this magic of yours: how well can you use it?"

Shirou couldn't believe what he was hearing. It showed on his face. "I can use it well enough, Father."

"I like to think of myself as a practical man. When I heard from Sid that a talent had entered the guards, I was dismissive. When stories of your prowess against the demons reached my ears, I wondered where your loyalties lay. But now, I see that you are much more than what I took you for. And with this revelation, I want to know how invested you are in this city."

"I do not follow, Father."

Mason set his glass on his desk and stared out the window of his office. Below, a mob of people celebrated with deafening noise. "I have lived in this city all my life," he said solemnly. "I have watched it grow despite the monsters outside these walls. I have seen friends die to protect it. We all believe our sacrifice is worth the cause, as there is no safer haven in this world than Rabona. But we are also aware that there will come a time when our sacrifices will not be enough. When that happens, the walls of this city will crumble, and Rabona will be swept aside like dust in the wind.

"I have become a Father because this is how I can best serve the city. So I ask you—_if you care for this city or its people at all_—how far are you willing to go to protect it?"

Shirou didn't answer. For a long while, he stared straight ahead.

"Why were they calling me a Saint?" he finally asked.

Father Mason blinked, glancing at Shirou before understanding dawned upon him. "Ah, yes. You are not familiar with the Holy Scriptures." He retrieved a single book from his bookshelf. "In the Holy Scriptures, the Saint Marie was given her title after the goddess of justice bestowed upon Marie powers to defeat Her enemies. It is one of the more popular stories." Mason slid the book across his desk to Shirou, who accepted it hesitantly. "It seems that those who witnessed your powers considered them gifts by one of our divines. Thus, _Saint Shirou._"

"But I'm not—"

"Look, it doesn't matter if you're not," Mason interrupted with a stern stare. "Saint Marie was not called a saint in her time either. What matters is the _meaning._ This title means the people consider you a symbol of their hope."

_You can help. You can be their hero._

Unspoken words whispered in Shirou's ear. He shut his eyes. Fire danced in his memories, fire that consumed the earth, the sea, the sky. Metal striking metal echoed in his mind, the fire drawing the shadows of men and women in armor fighting to the death. Armies of them, crashing against each other, shedding oceans of blood, leaving trails of corpses in their wake.

Something else. Rabona. Hundreds, thousands of lives hidden behind crumbling walls. An endless darkness surrounding them, growling and snapping at the heels of the defenseless.

He could stand against that darkness. He could protect Rabona, and the people living within it. It was tempting. His heart screamed at him to do it, that it was _the right thing to do_.

"I need to think on this. May I think on this?" Shirou asked.

Father Mason nodded. "Do so, son."

There was a knock on the door, and Sid entered the office. Apart from his tousled hair and a heavy scrape on his breastplate, Sid seemed unharmed. But when the guard captain's eyes found Shirou, they hardened.

"You sent for me?" Sid asked Father Mason.

"Yes, I did. Come in."

Sid obediently stepped inside, shutting the door behind him.

"Did you know about what he could do?" Father Mason asked immediately.

Sid looked at Shirou while answering. "I… heard what happened at the walls. To the giant yoma besieging the city. I find it difficult to believe such a thing could happen, but if it's Shirou then I think I can believe it."

"And why is that?"

"Guardsman Shirou seems to be blessed with the luck of the gods."

"As a captain of Rabona's guards, what is your opinion on how to proceed with this new knowledge?"

"The guardsmen would be most honored if guardsman Shirou would continue his service in protection of the holy city," Sid answered resolutely.

"Would you recommend guardsman Shirou to a promotion to the rank of captain?" Father Mason asked.

Shirou's eyes widened. He knew how the system of merit and rank worked in Rabona. In terms of a group the size of the city guard, a promotion from a lowly footman to a captain was akin to a peasant becoming a prince overnight.

"Yes, Father," Sid answered.

Shirou objected. "Father, I _cannot_—"

"Do not be mistaken." Father Mason turned his gaze back to Shirou. "This promotion is due to your actions as a guardsman during this most recent plight. You performed well above and beyond all expectations. You have earned this. Sid, we are done. You are dismissed."

Sid nodded, exchanged looks with Shirou, and departed.

"Now, _Captain_ Shirou," Father Mason continued, Shirou wincing at the rank, "I would like to inquire about the nature of your… _magic._"

* * *

"You have caused quite the stir."

On his way back from the cathedral, Shirou found a strangers in thick cloaks in his path. It was a side street far from the large main road that spanned Rabona. This alley would be the perfect place for a secret discussion—or a mugging. From the curvature of their figures, Shirou assumed the strangers to be women. He tensed his body in preparation for a fight. He was answered with something unexpected;

"My greetings, milord Saint," one said. It was an awkward moment when Shirou found a person he didn't know kneeling for him. It dawned on him then that this behavior was likely the first of many, many future occurrences. The thought left a lump in his throat. "It is an honor to be in your presence."

"Stand. _Please,_ stand."

The woman did. Thankfully, none of her companions had done the same.

"Did you need something from me?" Shirou asked.

The woman who had knelt raised her hood a bit. He saw her silver eyes. He remembered.

"I am here to offer my congratulations," the woman said, her words polite yet cheerful. It was difficult to tell if she was being sincere. "It is not often that one sees the deeds of a Saint firsthand."

"Yes," Shirou answered carefully. "Many are under the impression that I have been blessed somehow."

"I have heard. From what I have seen, I find no reason to disagree. But where are my manners?" The woman gestured to the others. "She is Yuliana. She is Eliza. And she is Zelda. I am Flora." He nodded at each. "They are my subordinates for this moment. Forgive them if they are a bit rude."

"My name is Shirou, though you may know." He hesitated. "What are you, anyway? You smell like yoma."

Flora stiffened, but hid her discomfort quickly. "We do not call ourselves by any name in particular. We are simply warriors. What names exist are given to us by the people. 'Silver-eyed witches' is the most popular. 'Claymore' is another term, thanks to the weapons we wield."

"Is there any reason you and your team are in disguise?"

"We're not welcome 'round here," Eliza answered, disgruntled, "even if we saved a few necks."

"It is the way of the people of Rabona," Flora added. "Rabona guards against all threats, including us warriors. That policy is what protects Rabona from the dangers in the world."

Shirou sighed. "That is something I don't entirely agree with. You four did help out, after all."

"That is something all of us deal with."

"I think you mentioned being... number _seven_? So there are at least three individuals like yourselves? "

"With all due respect, sir," interrupted Yuliana, "this information is not relevant to a civilian, saint or not." Yuliana turned to Flora. "Flora, we should go before anyone else catches wind of us."

"You're right. I thank you for your time, milord Saint."

"Just Shirou is fine."

"Then thank you, Shirou."

"Oh, c'mon!" Eliza complained. "I wanted a drink at the very least. I'm sure the _saint_ here can pull us a few strings." She grumbled as the others leapt atop one of the houses in a single bound. Eliza glared at Shirou. "Next time bring some ale with you. Or at least something to eat."

When they were well beyond the city's walls, and well beyond earshot, navigating the smoldering corpses and body parts strewn about the valley surrounding Rabona, Flora spoke.

"Not a word of this to the Organization," she said.

"They don't approve of us keeping secrets," Yuliana said. "But I think I will agree."

"Just because you were a good little church-going girl doesn't mean the rest of us were," Eliza bit out. "Why should we keep quiet?"

Flora aimed a scathing glare at Eliza. It was startling considering how composed Flora normally was. Eliza, despite her rebelliousness, clammed up. "I am serious, Eliza," Flora hissed. "If the Organization finds out, who knows what fate will befall this city."

"Are you suggesting something, Flora?" Yuliana asked.

"You two may not be old enough, but I am. Misfortune befalls those under the Organization's scrutiny."

Zelda nodded. "Flora is right."

Both Yuliana and Eliza nearly tripped. They didn't know Zelda could speak.

"When I was a child, a warrior passed by the village I lived in. She killed the yoma in the house across the street. Unfortunately, the village couldn't pay the entire cost." Zelda went quiet again, staring into the distance. When she continued, her voice was lower, as if whispering a secret. "Yoma annihilated the village in a fortnight. The Organization found me a day later."

"My story is similar," Flora stated simply. "So keep this a secret."

The ensuing silence was heavy.

* * *

The bakery was in ruins. His mind immediately went to the owners, Jonathan and Bethany. It was likely they were inside when the building collapsed. He asked a few passing civilians, and they told him. The news left a bitter taste in his mouth. The Bakers were two more he couldn't save. He searched the fallen rubble, taking note of the pieces of dust-covered bread scattered about, before he left, resigned.

When he reached his house, however, he found a surprise.

Sitting on the ground in front of his doors was Shirley. Her knees were drawn into her chest, her head hung. Her hair was covered in dust. When he reached her, she slowly stared up at him.

Her reddened eyes were dry of tears. "Shirou."

There was nothing he could say. He kneeled, helped the girl onto her feet, and let her inside. He found a towel and tried to wipe her clean. Her hands were covered with blood and welts.

"Mother and father are dead," she said, devoid of emotion.

He wanted to tell her it would be alright, that _she_ would be alright. The words didn't come to him.

"Father sent me out for deliveries. I ran and hid when the monsters came. When I returned to the bakery, everything was destroyed."

What could he tell the child of those he couldn't save?

"I tried to find them, but when I couldn't I came here. Everyone else is…" She shook her head and wept.

It was then he felt something. A feeling, a memory. It was like remembering a long-forgotten dream. It stirred in the gap in his heart, warming his soul with faint embers. It brought feeling to his hands, a fire into his chest, and the energy to keep going. In his mind he saw the visage of a middle-aged man with flames dancing behind him. He grasped at this intangible feeling.

Shirley looked into his eyes. "What do I do now?"

It was _purpose._ A _reason_ for him to preserve. While it never truly faded from his heart, having been cast over him like the sheath of a sword, he felt it resonate within him, a vibrant feeling. He had not lost this world yet. This was not Fuyuki City, the cemetery of his old life. The fires of the last Holy Grail War had not touched this plane. That alone was enough to cast aside the restraints of doubt and move forward.

Chains that had held him back for three years fell aside.

"Stay here for now," Shirou answered, finding strength. "We'll figure something out."

* * *

_a/n: __In response to SilverIceRing; I think the primary reason why I want to change up UBW is because I have some bad blood with the F/SN community I've encountered so far. I don't remember exactly what brought it about (it's been years), but it's there. It feels as if a large group of writers in the F/SN community believe in rigidly following the Nasuverse lore; it's like a religion to them. Sometimes the rigidity feels like zealotry, and it drains all the fun out of writing._

_Of course, I'm not saying everyone is like that. It is, however, my impression of the community at large. My changing UBW is... basically saying "Fuck off."_

_That said, some of the more fun stories I've read come from this fandom. Hells, this fandom is a large part of why I started writing at all. It's a love-hate relationship._


	6. Dreadspawn, Part One

**Chapter Six: Dreadspawn, Part One**

A horde of yoma descended upon Doga in the dead of night, hissing and screeching. Raki emerged from his room to see a monster in the shape of his older brother tear his uncle in half. The nightmarish sight snapped the boy awake, and he ran out the door before the monster could capture him.

When Raki stepped into the street, smoke filled his nose, warning him that everything was very wrong. As he ran, he passed disemboweled corpses, organs, limbs and heads. His footsteps squelched in blood-soaked dirt. When he ran into the village plaza, acutely aware of the creatures pursuing him in the shadows, he encountered a monument of mangled flesh standing over the village. It writhed, swayed as if it were alive. Then, with a sickening twisting motion, it oriented its body to face the boy, its face like that of a leech's. Raki's heart leapt out his mouth as the monster, rooted as it was to the ground, toppled its mass in his direction.

A pair of hands lifted him from beneath his arms and propelled him away. The wind swept by his hair; when he looked down, his heart jumped again. He was flying!

It was from this view that he saw the leech monster rise. It stood perhaps a hundred meters tall, much of its skin wrinkled like a fat worm. The pull of gravity reached him then. Raki let out a terrified scream as he fell, only to be silenced by a hand covering his mouth. It was a soft, feminine hand.

"If you scream, they will find us," said a woman in his ear.

It was the silver-eyed witch from that morning, except uncomfortably close. She was a lithe woman if the contours of her leathers could be trusted, and yet she handled him as if he were but a bundle of sheets.

The abrupt impact of the ground, followed by her immediate release of him, left the boy sprawling on the ground. They were just outside the borders of the village. The witch remained tense, her hand on the handle of the large sword strapped across her back, her eyes searching the night. All Raki could hear was the haunting sounds of the yoma, punctuated by the anguished screams of villagers. People he knew.

Between panicked breaths, Raki spoke. "E-everyone is—"

"Dead," the witched finished. She began walking, and Raki sprang to his feet to follow. "There are too many yoma for me to handle normally."

"Then why did you save me?"

"You were easy."

Out of the darkness a shadow struck at him. The witch reacted first, pulling him aside and bringing her sword down. There was a meaty thump. By the time Raki climbed back to his feet, the yoma was already dead.

"Come," said the witch.

Raki was frozen, overcome with fear, grief, and denial. Only hours ago his brother tucked him into bed after a humble meal of bread, cheese, and milk. His brother was dead now, a monster. A yoma. As was his uncle. And the man across the street. And Tess. And Simon. Everything was happening so fast he wanted to turn away from it all, believe it was a dream, a nightmare, and wake up from it.

A hand grabbed his and pulled him forward. Raki cried out, protesting as the witch led him away from home.

"Let me go!" he screamed. "I want to go home! I, I—"

"Don't have a home anymore. The yoma have taken it." The witch was blunt, unsympathetic. But she was right. "There is nothing you can do but leave or die. Do you want to die?"

Raki quivered. "No."

"Then come with me." She stopped suddenly again. "We're surrounded. Hold on to me."

"What?"

"Hold on to me."

Raki hesitatingly stepped closed to her, closer than they were before, and wrapped his small arms around her midsection. His eyes darted about the night, finding monsters closing in on them from all directions. He was scared. The witch told him to hold on to her tighter or he would fall. He flushed, but heeded her words. His face pressed against her breasts before the ground fell from beneath them once more.

"Where are we going?" Raki asked, the wind in his ears.

"Rabona," the witch answered immediately. "It is the only place safe from the yoma now."

Raki watched Doga burn from afar. The shapes of monsters moved like silhouettes against the fire, desecrating what used to be home.

* * *

In the months that followed his promotion to captain, Shirou found himself caught in a flurry of activity. There was paperwork. There were meetings. There was training.

Then there was Shirley.

The girl left her melancholy in weeks, attaching herself to Shirou and not letting go. With her family's bakery in ruins—and without the resources to rebuild it—Shirley found herself with nothing to do save attending to Shirou's needs. It became a common scene to see her at the barracks assisting Shirou and the rest of the guards with anything save fighting, or scolding Shirou for missing a meal. And while the girl seemed to have recovered, her guardian did not believe so. It was a problem that he found incapable of approaching despite all of his prowess.

The sun radiated heat the day Harold shared his reports to the rest of the captains in one of their weekly meetings. Three tables and over a dozen chairs adorned their meeting room at the barracks. Oil lanterns lit the room, where the smell of smoked meat and alcohol hung lightly in the air.

"Merchants have been comin' in with refugees. Sayin' the yoma have been at their throat, burning villages and all. They come from Lautrec mostly."

"And this information is reliable?" Galk asked, scanning a paper in front of him.

"Think so. Most of it comes from our usual lines."

"If this is true," Guard Captain Mattias said, nursing a flagon, "then we should shore up our defenses in case the yoma come to our doorstep again."

"What about the refugees?" Captain Tomas asked. "If they are coming to our city, we must consider securing more food. And with the pilgrims—"

"We do not have the resources to do so much," Sid said. "We will need more men. More supplies."

"Hmm." Galk pondered before looking at Shirou. "What is your opinion, Captain Shirou?"

"I agree on the fact that we would need more manpower to appropriately protect both the city and the influx of refugees," Shirou said. "Once we get more soldiers, we can consider expanding our reach."

"We can't train more soldiers without getting more supplies."

"Then maybe trainin' the refugees? And the people while we're at it?" Harold suggested.

"That would be difficult," Tomas remarked. "And unreliable."

"But it could work. It would maximize the potential of our entire population. We don't use any more food that we already are."

"It would take decades."

"It will already take decades."

"I do believe Captain Harold has the right idea," Sid interjected. "If the civilians can defend themselves to a degree, then we will have spare manpower to commit elsewhere. To circumvent the time needed to train them, perhaps we can train them in specific tasks. Specialize them, though not too heavily."

"Then the guard can be fully assigned for work outside the walls," Galk continued.

"The guard has better training. It is the most suitable balance of duties."

"But it doesn't solve our problem with supplies," Shirou said. "Even if we set up a militia, we still lack the equipment to arm them."

"Can't you?" Tomas asked. All eyes turned to Shirou.

"Not everyone, and not all the time."

"Then the merchants," Galk said. "Ask them to get us what we need: weapons, armor and food."

"We should be capable of it, but the cost would be high."

"Then do it in exchange for their safety," said Tomas. Shirou leveled a blank look at him. "Look, if we're going to set up the civilians as an armed force, we'll need all hands to bear combat experience regardless of other occupations. If the merchants aren't willing to contribute their share, then we have no reason to invest protection to them."

Shirou bit back a retort. Sid sensed the tension in the air and cut in, "Perhaps we should consider the merchants' inventory first. Can you get us a list?"

Harold nodded.

"We'll need a census of the population before delegating duties to everyone," Galk said. "Ideally we can assign an officer to every hundred people."

Shirou kept his mouth shut for the rest of the meeting.

* * *

"How can he even _consider_ something like that?" Shirou roared.

"He's jus' being practical," Harold said, nursing his mug of ale. "We don't have the manpower to save _everyone_."

"I know." Shirou slumped in his chair. "I just hate it."

"You've a good heart, kid. You care about the people. But that kind of heart can't make the kinds of choices we have to make." Harold drank deeply from his mug. "That aside, ye sure you should be in 'ere? Being a saint an all?"

Both listened to the ramblings of a drunk man proclaiming his marriage to a woman named Jess, only for another voice to remark that Jess was a horse. Shirou shrugged. "It's not like everyone knows how Saint Shirou looks like. And Father Mason never said I couldn't come here." He drank his tea slowly. "He just told me I couldn't drink alcohol outside of the… what was that holiday?"

"Saint Maria's Harvest Festival."

"Yeah, that."

Harold looked suspicious. "So yer hiding from the Father."

Shirou didn't answer. He didn't need to since the door to the tavern burst open then, and a very peeved Father Mason walked in. He spotted Shirou immediately against the crowd and approached the two captains. Harold shifted uneasily in his stood. "Captain Harold, a pleasure," the Father greeted pleasantly. "How is your leg?"

"'s fine with your blessing, Father."

"Wonderful. I see you have been keeping Captain Shirou company."

The attention that Father Mason had gathered with his arrival to the tavern shifted from the Father to Shirou when the latter's name was spoken in the hushed silence. Shirou could feel the weight of a dozen stares on his back, and he held back a sigh. There was no chance of finding peace in this tavern now. "Greetings Father," Shirou said with a forced smile. "I was just enjoying my _tea_. Do you wish to join us, or did you need me for something?"

"I have an assignment for you. Follow me."

Shirou hitched a brow but did as he was told. He bid Harold goodbye and left at the tail of the Father.

"You've been having trouble adjusting," Father Mason said. Shirou nodded. "Be grateful. I've been keeping the other fathers off your back. Were it not for me you would be in robes, passing your 'sacred blessings' onto the rest of the people in the cathedral from dawn till dusk."

"Thanks. What was the assignment you wanted to give me?"

"I've noticed how useless you are when it comes to addressing problems in regards to the city's infrastructure and logistics. The other captains are aware of it, too. You're too—"

"Invested in the people, I know."

"While that alone is not a bad thing," Mason continued, "it does not serve well in your situation."

"What do you want me to do then? I can't _not_ care."

"Very true. In fact, because you are a Saint, we _want_ you to care. So I have spoken with the Fathers and the other captains and arranged a special role for you."

"A special role?"

"You will go beyond our walls and deliver unto the people your protection."

Shirou was stunned. "Really? Just like that?"

"Yes. You are ill-suited for the standard responsibilities a captain of the guard bears, and keeping you here would be a waste of your combat potential. Thus you will do what duties we've been incapable of doing as of now: spreading our influence outside of these walls."

"When do I leave?"

"As soon as you can. Make sure you identify yourself appropriately when asked."

"What do you mean?"

"Make sure the people outside these walls know that you are the Saint of Rabona. _Their _Saint. Make them love you. When the people come to this city in which you are attached to, they will do so remembering your intentions. With the pilgrims you bring us, we will have the manpower to push our influence farther than our current limits."

"You want me to spread propaganda."

"Not 'propaganda'. The truth. You are the people's protector, are you not?"

"Of course I am."

And that was the truth. He would die being their hero.

* * *

Shirley brightened the moment Shirou returned to his cottage when the sun began to set. He had a contemplative look about him, which cleared the moment he noticed her. He smiled.

"Good evening," he said.

Shirley tried to calm her racing heart. "Welcome home. Umm, would you like dinner?"

"That would be wonderful." As Shirley disappeared into the kitchen, Shirou considered how to break the news to her. He had asked Harold to take care of Shirley. Anne, Harold's wife, would have been pleased to have 'Sherry' around the house. But Shirou was never adept in considering the nature of a situation beyond what was right and what was wrong. He could only ask and hope for the best. So he did. "Hey Shirley. I'll be leaving for an assignment tomorrow morning."

"Okay. When will you be back?"

"I don't know."

Shirley emerged from the kitchen with a tray of bread. Her expression was stony. "What?"

"The Father gave me an extended assignment outside the city," Shirou explained uncomfortably. "Just told me to travel around and help people out. I don't know if he wants me to stop."

"I see," Shirley spoke with a nod. "What should I bring?"

Shirou froze. "What do you mean?"

"I'm going with you."

"No you aren't."

"I want to."

"It's dangerous out there. You can't."

"But I will. What should I bring? A cot, medicine, a water skin, and spare clothing?"

Shirou put his foot down. "You won't be going, Shirley."

Then it happened. The pleasant air Shirley wore fell like a mask, exposing the vulnerabilities she had been hiding away. The crushed look she wore tugged at Shirou's mind, wearing away his resolve like water did sugar. "Please. I don't want to be alone. Please don't leave me here alone."

"You won't be alone. You can stay with Harold."

"I don't want to stay with Uncle Harry."

"Why not?"

"I want to stay with you."

She wasn't giving him any chance to argue. Her despair was so heavy he could cut through it with a knife.

"It's going to be really dangerous," he said softly. "You could die."

"I know."

Shirou ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "Alright then," he said, inwardly relaxing when Shirley's expression lit up. He sighed. "You have a sword or a knife, right? I know you've been sneaking in sword lessons from the guys at the barracks."

She laughed nervously. "Ah, umm…"

"Nevermind. I'll get you one tomorrow or something. I'll need to see how well you can defend yourself." He set his belongings down and entered the kitchen with Shirley following close behind him. And then he remembered to ask her a question he had in mind for a while. "Actually, I need to ask you something. What do you know about 'silver-eyed witches'? Or, umm, 'Claymore'?"

He recalled the opinions he had gotten from his fellow captains and Father Mason. He wanted more opinions.

Shirley frowned. "Not much. I remember stories about how they were yoma that looked like beautiful silver-eyed women. They would, umm," she blushed, "seduce men and devour them. But other people think that the witches are born from women that have yoma babies, and become warriors that fight the yoma."

"And what do you think about them?"

"I think that, whether or not they are yoma, they are very brave for fighting."

"Hmm."

Shirou remained quiet as the both of them prepared a meal. Many of the captains had denounced the 'silver-eyed witches' as monsters, Galk and Sid included. Harold had a quiet dislike for them. Father Mason had praised the witches. And now Shirley confirmed his own suspicions of how mixed the opinion in regards to these women were. From what he had gathered, these 'Claymore' were either heroes or monsters.

He hoped for the former.

* * *

_a/n: It occurred to me that some people might have found my opinion in regards to the Nasuverse community as offensive. And unnecessary. Sorry._

_ GGFBank: While I do encourage you to delve into the internet and read the (completed) Claymore manga translation, I've written this story with readers without background knowledge of _F/SN_ or _Claymore _in mind. The main characters I try most especially to elaborate upon. That said, some details won't be noticeable unless you have some knowledge about one or both series._

_ Mak006: The setting of this story is in the _Claymore_ universe so please understand that I have to heavily focus on_ Claymore _elements right now. I do intend to make magecraft a major deal later on, so please be patient._

_SilverIceRing: Yes, quite a number of Nasuverse stories that follow the lore to the letter tend to be of high quality. That's what infuriates me the most, I think. Anyway, while I did consider Shirou questioning Flora on the Claymore, I felt that he would consider it a relatively low priority at that time considering the state of Rabona and the assistance the Claymore gave._


	7. Dreadspawn, Part Two

**Chapter Seven: Dreadspawn, Part Two**

"You told me I wouldn't have to do this," Shirou muttered with a smile plastered on his face.

A crowd of faces he didn't completely recognize had gathered along the street leading to the gate out of the city. The last time he saw such a crowd was that day he toppled the giant yoma and became the saint of the city. He didn't like the crowd that day, and he certainly didn't appreciate it any more now. The worst part was that this _parade_ had taken him and his escorts around the entire city before heading towards the exit.

"The other Fathers insisted. Almost unanimously, I might add."

Father Mason's expression remained gentle as he spoke quietly to Shirou, but Shirou knew Mason was just as irritated about the celebration as he was.

A chorus of overenthusiastic cheers rang out from a group clustered in front of Rosemarta Inn. Shirou waved stiffly in their direction, his smile wavering as those cheers turned to screeching and sobbing. "This is too much. We should've been long gone by now." He glanced back at Shirley, who was trailing him closely with a look of unease. "At this rate, we won't get far before dark. And we have days of hiking after this."

"I know. But I do not believe the Fathers are aware of the strenuous exercise involved in travel like you are soon to embark upon. They're a fat lot."

"And you know?"

"I was a soldier once. Not for very long, but long enough that you have my sympathy."

"What's a soldier doing as a priest?"

"I became aware that the priests we had lacked a practical mindset."

Shirou swept his gaze from the crowd to the two dozen Honor guards surrounding him. "I think you still have much work ahead of you."

"Unfortunately, you are correct."

"I hope those supplies I managed to _scrounge up_ will help."

Father Mason's smile grew a tad more genuine at that. "I hope so too."

"I wish I thought of it sooner."

"It would have been for naught without the proper organization. It is as Captain Galk said; there is a need for uniformity and consistency within a body of soldiers."

"I know. Soldiers aren't reliable if you can't estimate their capabilities."

Remembering the meetings with his fellow captains gave him a measure of relief that he was leaving the city. Though their goals were aligned, he and the captains approached the yoma differently. While Shirou preferred fostering the burden of protection on the capable few, Galk and the captains wanted to empower the many. Risking everyone in such a way was something Shirou could not agree with. Not when he resigned to walk the path of hardship by himself.

"Don't worry about it," Father Mason said, as if reading Shirou's thoughts. "Ultimately, you and this city have different roads to walk, even if those roads reach the same destination."

"Is that the polite way of telling me to mind my own business?"

"I'm telling you not to worry. You are not the only one willing to risk his life for the greater good."

Shirou had no response.

"For now, focus on the task given to you." Father Mason continued. "You will be visiting towns beyond these walls. I daresay that you will find no parades out there. And that is not a good thing. That we can have this kind of festivity here is a sign that the sacrifices others have made for the sake of the city has brought forth some value."

"The farthest I've been from Rabona is the outpost at the crossroads," Shirou said, looking over the crowd to the sky past the top of the walls. "What's it like out there?"

"I've seen little from my own travels," Father Mason admitted. "But I hear stories."

"Stories?"

"From all sorts of people—merchants, immigrants, mercenaries. And the dying."

Shirou swallowed. "How is it?"

The peaceful mask Father Mason wore to the parade slipped for a moment. The crowd did not notice, but Shirou, whom had learned much from the Father since coming to Rabona, saw what lay beneath. A weary priest sighed before slipping back into his role. "There will be plenty of work for you out there, Saint of Rabona. Even when your hair turns white. Realistically I cannot expect you to change everything or save all of us." Shirou grimaced. "One lesson I learned as a soldier is that 'No sword can kill everything'. All I can ask is that you do your best. And look out for that girl tagging along with you, if you can. Children are the purest reason as to why a sword exists in the first place."

The knot in Shirou's throat loosened. These words were more digestible. "A sword kills," he said carefully. "But a sword can also protect."

"Yes. Now see to it that you do just that."

* * *

Raki slowed to a stop at the crest of a hill behind a large bluff. Breathless, he supported himself with his arms against his knees. His mouth was dry, and sweat rolled down his brow. Luckily the sun had risen not long ago, and faint traces of the night's coolness lingered in the air. He relished in a soft breeze that blew over the hill.

"Can you keep going?" Clare asked from behind him.

Unlike Raki, Clare was mostly unaffected by their flight from Doga. The only sign of exertion she showed was the dust that marred her gray two-piece uniform.

"I'm fine," Raki said between breaths. "Do you have water?"

"No."

Raki despaired. He didn't bring any supplies with him. All he had were the clothes on his back. He gazed towards the horizon, where a large river ran southward as far as the eye could see. Beyond the river were a few small mountains and green plains. It seemed much cooler there than where he stood, shaded from the hot, climbing sun, in the westernmost wastelands of Lautrec. He swallowed as he dreamt of a cold, crisp drink.

"We're going towards Rabona, right?" Raki asked. "Are we going to stop at a town on the way?"

"Yes."

Clare marched past him, her waist-length cape swaying behind her. Her sword rested in its sheath across her back. Raki took a few deep breaths and followed, ignoring the pull in his legs.

"I didn't bring any supplies," Raki mentioned.

"We'll get some in Brandt."

Raki nodded. "Are the yoma going to follow us there?"

"I don't know. The yoma should not congregate to that extent. What happened in Doga has not happened before, to my knowledge. I cannot predict the yoma's behavior now."

The boy swallowed. "I heard from my uncle that yoma disguise themselves as the people they eat."

"They do."

He remained silent as they walked. A hundred thoughts pounded in his head, demanding answers about his brother, his uncle and the town. The yoma had always been a distant problem that his brother told stories of. Raki never thought that he would see a yoma in his lifetime, not to mention lose someone to one. Or lose everyone.

"Miss? You're a silver-eyed witch, right?" he asked.

Clare's eyes were like twin points of glowing white when they glanced back at him. "We do not call ourselves that," she answered. "But that is what your townspeople call us, yes."

"My uncle told me your kind are part-yoma."

"We are."

"Then why did you help me?"

"Because we are also part-human."

Raki flushed and scratched his cheek. "Thank you. For saving me."

Clare stopped in her tracks. "You are welcome."

"I'll do my best not to be a burden."

The silver-eyed witch didn't know how to respond. For as long as she had been a warrior, Clare had never been thanked for her duty. It was, after, her purpose. Her sword was made to kill, and she, a warrior that carried a yoma's blood, used that sword to kill yoma. She and her sword carried nearly the same identity—for they carried a united purpose—and as such she was not meant to receive thanks. Clare stared at the boy for a moment, making him shift uncomfortably, before nodding. "Let me know if you need my help, or if you need to eat or rest," she said. "The walk to Brandt will take at least half the day. I do not sense yoma nearby so we are in no rush."

"Okay. My name is Raki."

She hesitated before turning. "Mine is Clare."

* * *

Flora surveyed the treetops from a cliff that overlooked the forest. Neither her eyes nor her sensitivity to demonic energy were a match for that of God-Eye Galatea's, but Flora didn't need such things to understand what was happening down below.

With her naked eye, she could see movement between the trees, a hive of activity by the combined effort of countless yoma. It was a sight to behold once in a lifetime, and yet the sight reminded her vaguely of the fresh memory from months ago. The similarities between what had happened in Rabona and what was unfolding before her eyes chilled her bones with apprehension—or was it fear?

"Certainly mysterious, isn't it?"

A voice startled Flora from her thoughts. Another warrior like her approached the cliff and took a seat at the edge, both feet dangling over the drop.

Ophelia played with her braided ponytail while studying the yoma activity. She seemed laid-back, but Flora didn't let herself be fooled: Ophelia did not become the fourth most powerful warrior of the generation without refining her strength to a razor's edge.

"It is mysterious," Flora agreed, brushing a golden curl from her eyes. "According to reports, yoma activity has been on the rise, but I have only seen a concentration of this level only once."

"R_eally_? It makes me want to send you down there alone."

Flora stiffened.

Ophelia sensed this. Her small lips formed a serene smile that, combined with her elfin features, formed a gentle, kind expression. "Just kidding. I want in on some of the action, too."

The stare Ophelia turned to the collection of yoma was intense, filled with a thirst that made Flora feel ill.

"But I do want to ask what your opinion on _that_ is," Ophelia said as she pointed a slim finger towards the center of yoma activity. From their position high above, a hill of pulsing flesh, a tumor in the earth, rose from a large, artificial clearing in the forest. Thick veins formed a network of black ichor within the rotted purple flesh, and disappeared into the ground like the roots of a tree.

"I have not seen anything like that," Flora answered, though her thoughts turned to the massive yoma that attack Rabona. "It seems to be alive. Perhaps it is an voracious eater of some sort?"

"A voracious eater, hmm? Looks promising."

"It seems to be vulnerable now. Should we mobilize and destroy it?"

Ophelia seemed to ponder for a moment before answering, "No. We'll leave it be."

"Wh-what?"

"You know what that reminds me of? An egg." It wouldn't have been too far off the mark, Flora realized. "Think of what kind of monster would come out of that egg. Think of how exciting it would be to try and kill it." Ophelia licked her lips. "Oh my. I'm growing lightheaded."

A spontaneous resolution to destroy the egg before it could hatch a monster brought Flora's hand to the grip of her sword. But by the time Flora took her first step towards the edge of the cliff, Ophelia was already on her feet, her demonic energy surging through her limbs as she threw Flora away. The seventh strongest warrior stabilized her balance in midair and landed on her feet a few meters away.

"We need to destroy that egg," Flora stated.

"No, we don't."

"Whatever is growing inside might kill all of us before moving on."

Ophelia's smile widened to show her teeth. "I know. I was getting bored with those lackluster creatures. 'Awakened Being'? Nothing special about them."

Flora stepped forward again, her hand still on the grip of her sword.

"Still trying? Our orders were to monitor the egg, not to destroy it." Even as she spoke, Ophelia drew her own sword. "If you manage to destroy the egg, I can't guarantee the safety of our sisters, you know."

_That_ quieted the infusion of demonic energy into Flora's sword arm.

"You dare?" she said softly.

"Don't think of me as the bad guy, number seven. I only want to have some fun. If I can't have it by killing strong yoma, all you leave me with is the little warriors." Ophelia twirled her blade playfully despite its size; she paid no attention to fact that the sword, as the other warriors' swords, was as wide as her arm, and as tall as her upper body. Her thin arms did not betray the underlying strength within them. "Of course, I don't mind if you want to fight me now. I've heard about your offensive strength, Windcutter Flora. It makes me want to test you."

"You're insane," Flora stated. Her hand left the grip of her sword. "And I am done here."

Ophelia looked surprised. "You're leaving?"

"I'd rather not spend my time like this. Farewell." Flora turned to leave the cliff, but not before adding a warning. "If you let that yoma in the egg get out of hand, you will have me to answer to."

Her threat was minor at best. Flora knew that, despite her own abilities, Ophelia was much stronger than her. Ranks among the warriors became more pronounced the higher on the scale one stood. The difference between rank four and rank seven were more apparent than the difference between rank forty-four and rank forty-seven. But if risking her life meant the guaranteed extermination of a beast like the one she saw in Rabona, she would have died without regret.

To be a warrior meant walking alongside death.

But that did not mean she would throw away her life so easily if there were other ways to do her job. As she departed from the cliff and the mad warrior behind her, Flora considered her next steps.

Reporting to the Organization was of low priority on the list.

Number four, twelve, thirty-two and thirty-six could do that for her.

Investigating of the behavior of the yoma across the land seemed more important. Logic suggested the possibility of another mass movement of yoma elsewhere. Discovering the reason behind this strange behavior and finding countermeasures—or even eliminating the cause entirely—would be better time spent.

It would not be said that Windcutter Flora wasted her time.

Wasted time meant the yoma would grow in force. Wasted time was time that could be used to slay another monster, to save another soul. Failure was not an option.

* * *

_a/n: not as long as a usual chapter, but I think it's satisfying._

_Thank you for your kind words, SaverLi. I'm aware of Shirley's presence (or lack thereof) in this story. It will be addressed gradually._


	8. Dreadspawn, Part Three

**Chapter Eight: Dreadspawn, Part Three**

The sound of steel rang like hard chimes at a spot beside a wide river. A small camp rested near the water's edge over a patch of scraped earth, surrounded by short grass and the occasional foliage. As the campfire blazed and threw about shadows, a sword fell into the dirt before its wielder fell gracelessly to the ground beside it.

Shirou twirled the longsword in his hand. "Not bad," he said. "Your footwork is getting better."

"Th-thank you." Between heavy breaths, Shirley struggled to sit up. The tabard she wore was caked in dust and dirt, as was the braid she tied her hair into.

Shirou smiled softly and offered a hand. Shirley accepted it and stood on wobbling feet.

Her arms hung at her sides. They weighed like lead.

"You're young. Don't expect to match me physically. You can build up your strength over time with hard work." He picked up the scabbard to his sword off the ground and slid his weapon in. "The exercises Harold and others showed you will help with that. They'll also help with your forms. That said, the yoma are exceptionally stronger and faster than grown adults. If you get used to fighting an opponent who is faster and stronger than you, then that will translate to some experience when you do meet a real yoma."

Shirou's effort at dispelling any doubt Shirley might have about herself brought a grateful smile to her lips. He was a merciless instructor, but tried to be gentle when he could.

It helped her to believe that he cared for her.

"Understood." She retrieved her sword from where it landed and wiped the blade clean before sheathing it. She drank deeply from a waterskin at the side of her cot, which lay near the campfire.

The bubbling stew set over the fire grabbed Shirou's attention.

"The food's nearly done. Will you eat now?" he asked.

Shirley fidgeted. The sweat and dust on her skin were hard earned, but not the least bit comfortable. It was unladylike to admit to her uncleanliness to a man, not to mention one like Shirou—but his insistence for her to be truthful about her thoughts made her answer. "N-no. I want to wash first."

"Alright. I'll keep the stew warm. Give a shout if you find yourself in danger."

She nodded and produced a spare set of clothing from her pack. By the fading light, she made her way to the river nearby, where the gentler, shallower currents offered her a convenient spot to bathe. Hidden behind brush and sparse trees, she peeled off her clothing, set them on a folded pile beside a dagger near the river, and began washing herself earnestly. The feeling of cold water against her skin shocked her senses, and yet she welcomed it all the same. Scrubbing rid her of the sand, dirt and grime clinging to her from traveling the western lands of Lautrec.

But water could not wash away exhaustion built from three days of hiking.

Nor could it wash away exhaustion built by the swordplay sessions she participated in under Shirou's tutelage. He held back in both of those sessions, even after opting to instill in her the principals of combat by practice. Even while bathing she could recall the movements of her sword and feet.

She sighed. Shirou had told her that learning how to fight would take time. Now she understood.

Unfortunately, understanding with her mind did not mean understanding with her heart. A part of her soul throbbed with a desperate need to take action, to lash out at the unfairness of the world. It was a need that seemed to grow heavier and deeper each day.

Only the uncertain belief that she could glean strength from Shirou's teachings kept her sane.

When Shirley emerged from the river, she dried herself off as best she could with a towel, clothed herself, and returned to the camp with her belongings. Shirou offered her a simmering bowl of his stew, made from the rabbits he caught that afternoon and seasoned with some herbs he gathered. She never mentioned how her stomach hungered for food beyond her asking for more helpings. Nor did she tell him how, after their meals were finished and she slipped into her cot to sleep, she would dream horrible dreams.

Her parents would visit her in her sleep. They would appear as they did when she would see them in the morning—hands covered in flour, and foreheads beaded with sweat from working the ovens.

It would be like any normal day. She would bring fresh bread to customers that had ordered. She would see Shirou often, and he would do things with her that she dreamed he would. And when the morning turned to night, she would return to the bakery to find it in ruins.

Her parents would crawl out from the wreckage, covered in blood.

Their intestines would spill from their mouths as gigantic yoma would rise from the ground, jaws wet with saliva. And as the yoma would devour her parents live, her mother and father would cry for Shirley to save them. They would do so and she would remain rooted where she stood, unable to scream or run away or help, only staring with a horrid, gut-wrenching fascination. And fear. For when her parents screams silenced in a gurgle of blood, and their futile struggles against their killers ceased, those very yoma would turn their insatiable appetites towards her. And when they began chewing on her limbs and drank her blood, she would awaken, and relish in the relief of being alive.

Even if she would awaken feeling more tired than when she did before falling asleep, Shirley knew there existed some fortune in her being alive.

Though she never told him of those dreams, Shirou seemed to know. He would always be awake when she was, making a breakfast that would invigorate her exhausted self. And after a small break, the both of them would pack up their camp and depart for another day.

It would be another day to save others from becoming like her.

* * *

Even the months he had spent fighting in this world were not enough for Shirou to fully grasp the creatures called the yoma.

They came in various shapes and sizes, with featured that ranged from disturbingly human-like to hideous and dangerous. He found it impossible to characterize them all even after slaying nearly one hundred of them. The only common traits they all shared much to his chagrin were their predatory nature and their supernatural stench. The severe lack of information regarding yoma even amongst Rabonian priests and soldiers frustrated him to no end, a problem he intended to rectify by trial and error if necessary.

But whatever he expected to encounter, what he saw at Sandro was not among them.

Sandro was a backwater village that lay a short journey away from the main road that connected the heart of the western lands to Rabona. Wooden houses rose out of hills, and large squares of farmland covered the plains like the squares of an earthen quilt. As he made his way along a path that diverted from the main road towards Sandro, Shirou studied the people he came across.

All of them were dirty in the way a lacking concern for hygiene made a person. Dirt smeared lightly across many faces, and crusted the nails of their hands. Their clothes were significantly more worn, and their bodies thinner.

Rough faces turned his way when he reached the outermost circle of houses that established the village's borders. He stood out like a sore thumb with his red hair and equipment; he noted a few men sitting on crates reaching for their tools as he passed. In response, he subtly gestured to Shirley to keep close to him, which she did so while shooting curious looks at her surroundings.

He didn't stop until he reached the narrow street gave way to a larger space, where the houses circled in layers. There were already a few armed and armored men waiting for him. The man in front, who Shirou assumed to be the leader, had a face set in a permanent scowl, which revealed a missing tooth among a rotting set. Shirou's pace slowed to a halt, and even Shirley sensed tensions rising as a crowd gathered around them. The man with a missing tooth spat to his side before speaking in a gruff manner.

"Whaddya want? We don' take kindly to strangers 'round here."

"I am a swordsman from Rabona," Shirou answered, "offering a service for yoma elimination. Do you have a leader I may privately speak with?"

"Tha's me. And we don' need yer help. Sod it, we can protect ourselves."

The man's subordinates roared in approval.

Shirou merely shook his head. "I was afraid you'd say that."

The heavy smell associated with the presence of yoma was strong in the village. Shirou's eyes surveyed the crowd before returning to the man with a missing tooth. He didn't blink as he drew his sword from its scabbard and cut down the man in a single motion.

A breathless silence overtook the village until the man's body fell against the dirt, the torso nearly bisected by Shirou's sword.

There was a woman's scream.

Shirou's expression remained hard as the corpse lost its shape, turning into a frail creature with sickly grey skin. A commotion broke out among the witnesses; even the armed and armored men whom looked ready to retaliate against Shirou hesitated upon seeing the true identity of their former leader. No one present considered the possibility that a yoma was already hidden amongst them.

"There is another one in your village," Shirou said to the closest of the armed men.

The man swallowed, his eye still wide with shock.

"I may need a few moments to find it. Do you mind keeping everyone in the crowd here?" He received a slow nod in return. "Thank you."

The crowd jumped back when Shirou turned around. It cleared a path for him as he walked to the northeastern quadrant of the village, and followed a distance behind him to observe. He stopped at a small, run-down hut and knocked.

There was a noise from inside before a woman in a dirty apron answered the door.

She barely avoided Shirou's sword by leaping backwards. With an inhuman hiss, she landed on all fours and escaped out the window.

Chaos erupted amongst the onlookers when they saw the yoma shed the appearance of one of their fellow villagers. One of the militiamen took initiative and swung his club at the yoma. The yoma reacted by swinging its bony arm, batting the club away from the man's hands.

Another militiaman darted in behind the yoma and lunged with his sword. It penetrated the yoma's flesh, in which the yoma reacted by twisting its body and clawing its attacker's face. With a cry, the militiaman fell, clutching his bleeding face with both his hands. The yoma could not follow up as the other militiamen closed upon it, and instead chose to escape through the crowd. Screams and shouts escaped the men, women and children that had gathered until the village was thrown into a frenzy.

As the yoma cleared the last circle of houses, it spat a string of curses under its breath. Its voice was no longer that of a woman's, but a guttural growl that would fit an animal.

"The hell was that? That wasn't a witch. How'd he know it was me?"

It ran on all fours, and thus did not see the arrow fly into its neck until it was too late. The arrow punctured the neck, severed it entirely, and left the head rolling down a slope. The rest of its body collapsed the moment the head rolled, falling on its limbs as the momentum of its movement sent to careening over itself down the slope. From a distance away, Shirou lowered his bow before jumping down from the roof of the house he perched on. His bow vanished into motes of soft light as soon as his boots touched the ground.

He found a sea of slack-jawed villagers watching his every movement.

Shirley's eyes glittered with a strange admiration as she returned to his side, having brought over the sword he had dropped when he had drawn his bow. He accepted it with a smile.

He wiped yoma blood from the sword with a cloth and sheathed it.

"Is there a leader I may speak to in regards to the future of your village?" Shirou asked aloud.

A murmur swept through the villagers.

The looks on the faces of the villagers were vastly different now. Gone were the glares and curious stares; in their place were fearful eyes, awe, and growing wariness.

One of the militiamen stepped forward. Shirou recognized him as the man that had gotten wounded from the second yoma, whom Shirou had quickly healed with a projection bearing a recovery property. The fresh pink scars over the man's face encompassed his still-shut right eye. It would fully recover in time.

"I s'ppose I can take the job fuh now," the militiaman said, offering a hand. "Name's Sergio."

Shirou smiled politely and gripped arms. "I apologize about the mess. I believe such a thing had to be done as soon as possible, in case the yoma decided to escape or continue feeding."

"No worries. Didn't think ol' Henry was one of 'em." Sergio frowned. "Or Melina, fer that matter."

"Yoma are dangerous. I don't think you'll disagree. I came here to get rid of the ones here now, but more may come after I'm gone. I can tell you that the Holy City may send soldiers here to help set up something for your protection in the near future."

Sergio nodded. "I see. What'd you say yer name was?"

"Shirou of Rabona."

His grip remained firm on Shirou's arm as a flicker of recognition passed the militiaman's features. "I heard o' you. A trader came by a month back. Talked about a yoma attack on the holy city."

Shirou heard a whisper from the onlookers. "Shirou of Rabona? Isn't he...?"

The murmur that had spread among the villagers earlier returned in force. Shirou hadn't expected the villagers to know who he was, as he had never traveled far from Rabona. However, the villagers seemed to know of him by secondhand tales from gossiping merchants. There was a buzz of excitement in the air when a voice from the crowd shouted a name. "Bethany! Sergio, tell him about Bethany."

Shirou looked confused. "Bethany? Who is Bethany?"

"She is missing," Sergio answered as a gloom settled over his brows. "Since two nights ago. We searched for her. With our hounds. Nothing."

"You want me to look for her."

"Please."

There was no question in his mind. "I understand. I will do my best."

"Thank you."

For a moment he considered asking the villagers to look after Shirley while he searched for the missing villager. As if reading his mind, Shirley responded by firmly gripping his free arm. It would have been a dangerous idea, he considered in retrospect—a yoma could snatch Shirley away without her being sufficiently trained to fight back. He would have to bring Shirley and hope that the missing girl would somehow stay alive until he could find her.

He tried not to consider the chance of the missing girl already being dead.

That was not how a hero thought.

* * *

_a/n: Hey folks. This update came faster than the last, but that doesn't mean the next will be._

_I received a question about how Shirou's "new" UBW functions. The main reason why I haven't extensively explained the functions of UBW in the story or even in the author's notes is for three reasons._

_1) This story is supposed to be digestible for readers who are not as familiar with one or either fandoms._

_2) I'm trying my best to avoid infodumping._

_3) It hasn't been relevant to either myself or the story. I don't have as strong of a grip on Nasuverse thaumaturgy as some Nasuverse writers (hence my lack of presence on sites like Beast's Lair and DLP), so my efforts in constructing a feasible magical system would be a waste of my time. I'm not writing this entirely for the magic, either, so I'm satisfied with a broad reinterpretation of what the "new" UBW can do._

_I personally think that miring the story with these mechanics takes away from the experience. However, If you absolutely need to know, feel free to PM me._


	9. Dreadspawn, Part Four

**Chapter Nine: Dreadspawn, Part Four**

Far ahead was a frail figure crossing the plains with a bundle tossed over its back.

The figure itself hunched forward like an old man, yet its long limbs had a thin, lean quality that hid surprising strength. Its legs, too, were long and strong. Using its thick knuckles in conjunction with its leaps, it moved quickly in a style similar to that of an ape.

Clare's eyes locked onto the figure nonetheless. Her senses told her it was a yoma. The shape of the creature reminded her much of the weaker variations, those that relied on their disguises to hunt. At the same time, it was different—thinner limbs, a larger head, and much larger eyes. What those differences meant, she didn't know. All she knew was that the creature seemed weak enough for her to kill. One less yoma in the world was never a bad idea.

"Clare?" Raki called from several steps behind her. "What's wrong?"

"I'm going ahead for a bit."

Raki understood when Clare drew her sword. She ran ahead, her steps biting into the dirt road as her speed made short work of the distance to her target.

The yoma flinched, whirled, and screeched before taking off.

Clare clenched her teeth and drew upon her own reserves of yoki. Her speed increased as the energy flowed into her legs, warping her musculature until her legs moved faster.

In an instant, Clare rushed ahead, her weapon singing as it cut through the air. The arc of the swing caught the neck of the yoma, beheading it neatly beneath its jaw. As the corpse fell backwards, the bundled package it had carried fell with a soft thump on the ground at its feet.

Clare's weapon hovered over the bundle warily as Raki caught up with Clare.

"W-what is that?" Raki asked.

"I do not know. I do not sense any yoki from it."

Hesitantly, Raki approached the bundle. The depressions in the cloth suggested the contents itself to be long and relatively thin. He noticed it moved, as if breathing. "It's a person." As he began unraveling the bundle, Clare maneuvered her weapon and cut open the cloth. Raki's guess was correct; as the strips fell away, they revealed the unconscious form of a woman inside. "She's alive. What's a yoma doing carrying a woman? I thought they ate people, not capture them."

"I... do not know. The behavior of the yoma as of late have been erratic." Her face contorted slightly in frustration.

"What do we do with her?"

"Wake her."

"Should we bring her with us?" Raki asked as he tried to shake the stranger awake.

"Perhaps."

A low moan escaped the woman as she stirred from unconsciousness. Her eyes opened slowly before focusing on Raki. "Wh-who are you?" When she noticed Clare, the woman nearly jumped. "A witch!" she hissed as she looked about frantically. "Where am I? Where did you bring me?"

"A yoma was carrying you off," Raki said.

"A yoma?" Her hand brushed against the yoma corpse. She looked at it and screamed.

"Please calm down, lady. It's dead."

The woman crawled away from the corpse, screaming until she ran out of breath. Raki turned to Clare with a silent plea for help. Clare watched on indifferently as the woman began hyperventilating.

Seeing his companion unwilling to help, Raki stepped up his own efforts to placate the woman. "Lady, you're going to be fine. Where do you live?"

"Live. Live! Where do I...?" The woman shook her head. "Sandro."

Raki frowned. "That's a few days from here."

"Why did the yoma abduct you?" Clare asked.

"I-I don't know! I didn't even think there would be yoma in—"

"Umm. Clare, I think it's best if we just brought her back to Sandro. It's in the direction we're headed, after all." Raki smiled awkwardly at the stranger. "You're welcome to come with us, lady. Clare is... she can kill any yoma that tries to eat us. She had saved me, too."

"I can't trust a witch."

Raki's smile faltered. "Clare is trustworthy. I promise."

"I, n-no... no! I can't. I'll go back by myself."

Raki's smile strained. His struggle to get the woman to accept Clare was embarrassing. When his uncle and brother were still alive, they told him stories about the silver-eyed witches. 'If you see one at night,' his uncle had said once, 'run back home. Or, if you can't, cross a river. Those witches can't touch water. If you let them catch you, you'll end up dead. Or worse. They might catch you, drag you back to their coven's home in the woods, and stew you for a meal.' Of course, Raki knew it to be nonsense now after sharing a camp for a few nights with Clare—but clearly this woman believed in the old dogmas regarding the witches.

"We're going in the same direction. It'll..." Raki paused. He had an idea. "Actually, may you lead us back? I've never seen these lands before. I'm afraid I might get lost."

The woman looked confused. "The witch is—"

"Clare is... for _my_ protection. My family hired her to accompany me on my... pilgrimage to Rabona. I hope you understand."

The woman pondered before nodding. "I suppose."

"Wonderful! Umm." Raki offered his hand. The woman accepted it. "My name is Raki."

"Mine is Bethany," she said as she brushed the dirt off her clothes. "Now tell me: what kind of no-good mother would let her child leave with a witch?"

Clare remained unaffected by Bethany's scathing remarks.

* * *

After obtaining a description of the missing woman named Bethany, Shirou and Shirley had left Sandro with refreshed supplies and a pressing drive to succeed. The problem was that neither of them had any idea which direction to go until an aging woman—probably in her early fifties, what passed as ancient—recounted a tale of how she had seen a hobbling old man carry his belongings off in the direction of the Brandt. In the dark she hadn't seen his face, but the only elderly man in town was still there; as such, Shirou had a lead, even if the testimony was unreliable at best.

They were a quarter of a day away from Sandro when they set up camp beneath a large, green grove. As the fire flickered, they sparred, their shadows jumping over the trees.

"Keep your guard up," Shirou said as he struck.

He controlled the speed of his swing enough so for Shirley to react, but only just. She responded by parrying the swing along the blade of her sword, pushing the strike over her head clumsily. Before the ringing of steel ended, she struck back with a quick thrust of her own weapon.

"Ha!" she shouted as she exhaled sharply.

The transition was sloppy, and her footwork needed much more practice. Occasionally she would stumble by her own feet, though she never fell. She focused too strongly in the clashing of arms, forgetting her surroundings or her opponent's tricks. However, her progress satisfied him enough; she did her morning exercises obediently, ate her fill during meals, and pushed herself to her limits during their mock fights. To ask more would be unreasonable. She would be a respectable fighter in the years to come. Now the girl was still green—as expected in a week's practice.

In thinking so, he never expected her to draw the knife he had given her from her belt after he disarmed her. She was two steps away, and with one she was well within his guard. He took it in stride, catching her arm with his free hand and shoving her back.

She stumbled backwards and fell on her rear. "Ouch."

"Good thinking with that knife. It caught me by surprise." He lowered his sword and gently kicked Shirley's sword back her to her. "Another..."

He smelled it then. Blood. It hid under the cover of smoke, and nearly escaped Shirou's notice.

"Shirley," he said, his sword still in hand. "Stay close."

She rose weakly to her feet, glancing about the trees as the flames kept the darkness at bay.

Reinforcement sharpened Shirou's sight, increasing his eyes' sensitivity to light as his searched the grove with the moonlight to aid him. Past the blinding light of the fire, he spotted figures moving in the dark. They were thin figures, nimble even with their hunched forms. Their eyes were disproportionately small compared to their heads, and their teeth were abnormally sharp and plentiful.

"A-are there yoma?" Shirley asked as she backed herself towards Shirou, her sword at the ready.

"Yes. A number of them. Twelve... fifteen. Nineteen." A knife materialized in his free hand. He hurled it upwards in the air. As it reached its peak, Shirou's sword quivered as its form shifted.

The longsword widened, lengthened. The grip grew for both his hands to use.

The knife shattered before it plummeted. The shards were flickers before they exploded into motes of light, each shining like miniature suns. Shirley gasped, straining her eyes against the glare but maintaining her guard despite her shock.

The light shed by the knife illuminated the grove around the camp, revealing the creatures stalking the night. And Shirou met them, greatsword carving onto the neck of one.

A collection of growls, hisses and roars urged the creatures to charge. Shirou's greatsword swung true and cut apart a group of three that lunged at him as one, and they fell to pieces together. Others dogged at him, snapping at him with their jaws with loud clicks and nimbly evading his swings. He caught sight of a pair herding Shirley away from where he was.

But Shirley was holding her own. As one tried to snap at her, she pulled back half a step to avoid the teeth, and thrust her sword forward to catch it in the soft of its throat.

The other struck at her, and Shirley had to abandon her weapon to avoid injury. Haggard as she was, she stayed out of the monster's swipes, bites and leaps with evasive rolls until it leapt upon her. She whipped out her knife at that moment. The short blade found its mark on the creature's shoulder, and cut across to its opposite shoulder like wet paper. It screeched and tried to scramble away, only for Shirley to plunge her knife into its back and cut a deep wound down its back.

She drew deep breaths as she stared at the unassuming knife in her hand.

"Did you expect I'd leave you with a simple knife?" Shirou said as he returned to her side, his greatsword covered in gore and dark ichor. "Good work."

She flushed, smiled and got back on her feet.

There were bodies all over their camp. The surviving creatures retreated beyond Shirou's magical light, hissing and growling. Already, Shirou could see more descending upon them from further beyond with his reinforced eyesight. There was a steady stream of them, in fact. A quick study determined that they matched the description the woman from Sandro gave him about an old man wandering towards Brandt.

_But still, it is odd how they are gathering here. It's not a horde of them. Not quite. And yet, they keep coming. It's like a line of them marching in—ah._

"There are more coming," Shirou told Shirley.

"Wh-what do we do now?" she asked, her stutter betraying her unease. He didn't blame her; even adults would be afraid, and Shirley was but fourteen-years old. That she hadn't broken down into a blubbering pile of fear by now solidified his opinion of the girl—she was brave.

"These yoma match the description the woman in Sandro gave us. Perhaps if we push forward, we can find the missing woman. What was her name again?"

"Bethany."

"Yes. Her. Get your sword. We'll be pushing back hard."

Her eyes widened. "I-is that a wise idea?"

"Probably not. But we can't sit here and let them attack us, can we?" He let a reassuring smile creep upon his face. "Watch my back, okay?"

Her flush grew redder as she yanked her weapon from the yoma's corpse. "Of course!"

_They're marching in this direction. They're after the people in Sandro. Bethany had been taken before, and now it is likely these were going to raid the village. It means that I should take out as many as I can, or at least get all of them to chase me. And if my guess is right, at the other end of the line is where I'll find some answers._

He turned his smile towards the yoma, where it turned grim. "We'll leave our things here. We'll be on the move all night. Hopefully we'll find them still here when we're done."

"Okay."

He moved then. Not too quickly, but certainly steadily. As he left the light, the monsters descended upon him, as if hoping the loss of light would make him more vulnerable. It didn't—and the creatures that attacked him suffered for it. The ten that had survived the initial encounter at the camp had become fifteen with their reinforcements, only to drop to eleven. They drew him forward, forming a loose semi-circle with him and Shirley at the center.

Shirley stayed at his back, her sword and knife lashing out once or twice when a yoma tried to flank. The cuts she inflicted drove them back. Shirou's greatsword cut them down.

When it became obvious to the yoma that Shirou was too strong, they retreated.

He followed.

The creatures that followed the initial spearhead of yoma found their comrades running back. A moment of hesitation brought them swift death as Shirou made short work of them. A trail of corpses marked his pursuit of the yoma deeper into the grove until the grove became a forest. As Shirou strayed from the beaten path to Brandt, he smelled with growing disgust the stench of yoma in an almost unbearable concentration.

It reminded him of that dawn in Rabona, when the gigantic yoma charged at the Holy City's walls.

"Shirou!" Shirley called when she caught up. "What's wrong?"

"It's a big one. Like that day in Rabona." Shirley froze. Shirou caught this, managed another smile, and pat her on the back. "We'll be fine. Keep light on your feet," he said, pushing her sword into her hand, "and keep your sword in your hands, and you'll be alright."

She swallowed, nodding. She steeled her resolve, drawing upon herself strength from her beliefs. That day haunted her dreams, brought her nightmares, but she would not let it control her.

At the very least, Shirou believed she could do it. And she trusted him.

"I understand," she said. She took her fear and killed it with her will to survive.

"Good."

When they continued on, the shapes of the yoma were long gone among the trees. Instead, Shirou followed the smell in the air, wandering until he knew in which direction the smell grew stronger. When he did, he pressed ahead, Shirley grasping his hand as he did, until the trees grew scarce and the pair emerged on the other side of the forest to find—nothing.

Nothing, as there was only a gaping hole in the ground.

The earth long collapsed into the depths of the hole, as had whatever trees or stone that once stood there. The smell disgusted Shirou. Cautiously, he stepped to the edge of the hole and peered down.

Down below, at the bottom of a sixty-foot drop, he saw paste-white flesh.

The horde of yoma contrasted with the dark of night, and even without his reinforced sight he could see them whirl in his direction one by one. When he reinforced his vision, he saw more; the traces of blood trickling down the mouths of a few of the yoma; the mangled bodies beneath the creatures' feet; the pulse of movement that beat below the earth.

At the center of the horde, past the hissing and snarling monsters, was a swell in the sea of flesh.

There rested a creature different from the hunched creatures that surrounded it. Its head was round and its eyelids wrinkled. Its upper lip split into two, its mandible into four. It twisted itself before crying out, its voice like an infant. One of the lesser yoma rushed to it and spewed a black liquid into the waiting mouth of the beast. The act seemed to give the larger creature strength, as once it finished eating it opened its eyes. It opened its eyes and turned them straight at Shirou.

It wailed.

The earth shook. The lesser yoma scrambled as the larger yoma opened its mouth—and kept opening. The lesser yoma fell into the monster's jaws by the hundreds until the ones scrambling up the walls of the hole lost their footing and plummeted.

The earth kept shaking as it began to split.

"Run!" Shirou shouted.

Shirley obeyed. Her sword lit with a soft glow, and to her surprise she darted back into the forest with a speed she could not have possessed. Shirou reinforced his legs and followed.

The earth rumbled as it broke, and a mountain of flesh surfaced. The yoma howled into the night, looming over the trees until its very figure blocked the moon. The great slag of its flesh ended with hundreds of worm-like tendrils, each ending with a fleshy circle of teeth.

It lurched forward out of its hole and pursued.

* * *

In a camp beside the road running between Brandt and Sandro, Clare raised her head from her knees. She stared at the mountain of flesh in the distance, too close for comfort.

The sheer yoki radiating from it made her wonder how she had missed it.

Raki noticed the creature as well. "Clare," he began, uneasily, "what is that?"

"A yoma," she answered as she got to her feet. She donned her armor, and took her sword from the tree it leaned upon. "I will investigate."

"W-wait! You don't have to—!"

"Yes. I must."

Without another word, she took off towards the yoma.

The monster's wails filled the night.

* * *

_a/n: Hello! Hello! Hello!_


	10. Dreadspawn, Part Five

**Chapter Ten: Dreadspawn, Part Five**

What the monster lacked in agility it made up for with its sheer size.

Even as Shirley returned to camp, her body lightened by the Alteration Shirou had bestowed upon her sword, she could still hear the monster descending upon them by the snapping of trees. If she had bothered to turn around, she would see it past the canopy of leaves.

Far behind her, the yoma's tendrils surged at Shirou like a bed of constrictors. Each time his greatsword cut off the heads, another set of tendrils would engage him while the wounded ones retreated out of range to regenerate. The tendrils circled his position, cutting off his retreat into the forest, and piled high into a barrier of flesh. One particularly brave appendage lashed out for his arm, only to be cut off with a flick of Shirou's weapon. With a grunt, Shirou reinforced his arms and cut apart the barrier with a single swing. He escaped through the breach before more tendrils closed it. The monster screeched in anger.

Other appendages reached for him even as he disappeared into the forest. He cut off the closest ones before running. They kept up with his speed, and the girth of the yoma made it difficult for him to outrun it―at least, not without reallocating his prana to mobility.

A great oak groaned a tide of unending flesh crashed into it. The tree snapped when the weight of the flesh overwhelmed its elasticity. Shirou cut apart the tree as it toppled in his way him, and was met with a shower of leaves and splinters. A single tendril reached for his forearms through the wood chips and branches as his swing ended.

_cutting two speed two_

The shape of his greatsword shifted slightly, the fuller thinning and the hilt lengthening.

As his Alteration took hold, Shirou twisted his body, pivoting on his foot and cutting through the tendril with a speed greater than he had a moment ago.

If the monster was surprised by this, it showed in the way its remaining tendrils flooded the rest of the forest, casting a net with its own body to catch its prey. Some tendrils ensnared wild animals from the woods―birds, mice, deer, raccoons―and crushed them before dragging the bodies back to the monster's waiting maw. The yoma's mandibles opened wide and ate the creatures it overcame, its mouth becoming a vertical abyss of teeth, flesh, and saliva.

Avoiding the worst of his attacker's attempts at capturing him, Shirou cut and ran and jumped and dodged. But no matter how many tendrils he managed to cut away or evade, more always came after him.

_Regenerative properties extremely high. Numerous limbs. Long reach._

His eyes darted about when he emerged from the other side of the forest, searching for Shirley, his camp, or the direction Sandro stood. He saw instead the yoma's reach by the way the trees fell unnaturally behind him all across the woods.

_Need to kill it before it reaches the town. High regeneration overcomes cutting properties in the long term. Either I inflict damage greater than its rate of recovery, or reduce its regenerative abilities to a more manageable level._

His eyes detected the monster's form growing larger with the pulses rippling over its flesh.

_Damn it._

_cutting two speed two cursed one_

Again his greatsword changed, this time the blade growing curved teeth until it became a serrated edge. A dark miasma poured from its steel.

When a tendril pursued him, he cut it. As it retreated as usual, the stub that was once the head of a smaller set of jaws writhed in itself, the flesh unable to reshape. Further down the tendril, a violent shudder took hold of the appendage as a series of dark lines raced down the flesh. Everywhere the lines touched, the flesh would no longer regrow, stagnating under a curse. The pace of the lines spreading down the tendril slowed until it stopped at the base of the creatures arsenal of limbs.

_Curse Alteration not potent enough to disable its entire regenerative abilities. Need to negate the rate of its spread._

Taking off, Shirou raced along the treeline, his sword carving the tendrils snaking out of the forest. Each one he cut apart fell beneath the curse of his sword, preventing them from regrowing.

Still, further down the treeline in both directions, more tendrils than he could count shot from the forest to become an ocean of flesh seeking another meal.

N_ot enough. Holy Alteration does not guarantee the kill._

_cutting two speed three cursed three_

The blade of the greatsword thinned as Shirou's speed elevated another level. His surroundings began to blur, and the miasma from his sword became a trail of black smoke billowing behind him. The lines his cuts made grew more numerous, even writhing the flesh that he cut until the flesh turned to ash.

Still, the monster's flesh flowed endlessly.

Sharpening his eyesight with Reinforcement showed Shirou that the tendrils were indeed reaching for Sandro. At this time, the town would be sleeping―prime targets for a hungry yoma.

Gritting his teeth, he pushed for more.

_cutting five speed five cursed five_

The heat of seven circuits burned in his soul. His surroundings became colors, the air became his blade, the darkness pouring from his weapon fused with the night. As he ran, great swathes of the yoma's flesh cracked and hardened into ash. His swings stole the air and used it to extend the length of the blade, the very wind becoming his weapon.

Still, the monster's flesh poured through.

He needed more.

_I̸͢͝ ̷̸̴͜͞a͏̸̛m͝ ̧̢̀t̷̷̵h͏̵͡é̡̀͜ ͏̕͘͢b̕͞͠o̶n̢͜͢͡e̵̶ ̴̡͝͝o̵͡f̶͢͠ ̶̀̕m̵̨̧͠y͡ ̷̕͝s̀͜w̧̨͘͝ò͞҉̛r̢͟͡҉d̷̢́͝͝_

* * *

Clare spotted a lone girl running from the forest in the distance with shocking speed. The forest had come to life with activity, trees toppling, birds flying, the yoma crying. Behind the girl was what seemed to be the yoma's limbs racing after her like gigantic snakes.

The warrior picked up her speed with her yoki, and, with a mighty swing of her weapon, cut through the mess of tendrils pursuing the girl. In the following motion, she picked up the girl by the collar of the girl's tunic and leapt through the air, landing on a hill a ways away from the direction the tendrils moved. She released the girl carelessly, and the girl fell on her behind. Clare twirled her greatsword once, ridding the weapon of the blood and gore that caked the blade, before laying the tip against the ground with the intent to use it soon. Though she kept her eyes on the yoma in the distance, tracking the movements in case the yoma turned its attention to her, Clare addressed the girl with her words.

"What are you doing here so late?" she asked.

The girl fumbled her words through heavy breathing. "Shirou," she finally said coherently. "My teacher. He's still fighting. I think he needs help."

"Your teacher is dead," Clare said simply.

"No, he isn't," the girl answered. A frown touched the girl's face. "He's a Saint."

"Your teacher is dead. He is a human―'Saint' or not, humans cannot fight yoma and survive. Especially not this kind of yoma."

The forest was nearly no longer. Almost all the trees had fallen, toppled over by the yoma's creeping limbs. Slowly but surely, the yoma crept over the remains of the forest, grabbing whatever was in reach and devouring it to sate its hunger.

"Shirou is Rabona's Saint. He has slain monsters like these. He is still alive."

Clare turned a disapproving glare at the girl for a moment. The girl looked as if she believed in her own words. Clare's next words were consciously intoned, as if having said them many times over, to the point where she sounded as if speaking to an infant without an understanding of the world. "If humans could so easily slay yoma, there would be no need for one such as I. Can he find a yoma within a village? Can he do so while it wears the face of another human? Can he do so without hurting anyone else in the village?"

The girl scowled. "Yes. I've seen him do it. He is fighting the yoma now. That is why I am alive. You are a silver-eyed witch. Help him kill it!"

"I don't have time for this," Clare said. "The yoma is headed for the village."

"Where are you going?"

"I will warn the villagers. They will evacuate unless they wish to die a terrible death."

"No!" The girl pulled Clare's arm. "Even if they listen to you, they will have nowhere to run. The yoma is too fast for them to escape. The only reason I could stay alive was because of the sword and dagger Shirou blessed."

Clare looked curious. "Blessed?"

"Here, look!" Shirley offered Clare her shortsword.

Clare received it. She felt the change in her body in an instant; her body felt lighter even without yoki coursing through her body. It changed to such a drastic degree that the warrior was sure she would topple from a soft breeze. "Amazing. A blessing, you said?" Clare asked as she studied the blade in the moonlight. "Your teacher did this?"

"Yes! He blesses swords and gives them power. He's fighting the yoma right now, I'm sure of it!"

Silver eyes rose to the creature in the distance. "Perhaps I can help; however, I will need to borrow this. You should leave this area in case the yoma comes this way."

The girl nodded solemnly. "I will do my best."

The girl ran, her legs carrying her slowly across the grasslands towards Sandro. Compared to the speed the girl possessed before, the pace she moved in now was like a snail's pace. Clare marveled at the potential of the effects the 'blessing' granted to the sword. She infused her legs with yoki and held the shortsword she borrowed from the girl low as to avoid cutting herself. She ran, and―for a moment―she felt as if she were the wind itself. More than that; her boots barely touched the ground with every stride before she continued on, as if she were flying low over the ground. The long-lost luster of such a novelty returned, and Clare basked in the sensation of her newfound speed even as the forest of tendrils drew near.

Then, sliding the borrowed shortsword beneath her belt, Clare drew her sword and entered the fray.

Sensing her approach, tendrils surged forth to meet her. Her yoki flowed into her arms to strengthen her swings. Thus the attack that met the tendrils severed them entirely from the body.

She didn't look back to see the regenerating tendrils. Her experience with yoma refined sharp instincts in her, and those instincts told her to march onwards. The tendrils were distractions from the vulnerable parts of the yoma: the head and the heart. With her abilities alone, confronting the yoma behind the forest of tendrils would have been suicide.

With the 'blessed' sword in her possession, it was just slightly less so.

Both soaring and running, Clare wove herself in between the tendrils, her eyes closed and brows furrowed in concentration.

Closing her eyes helped her see the things she couldn't see just yet. It was the yoki in herself as well as the yoki in her surroundings. Yoki―the internal energy that empowered the yoma and instilled violent cravings―saturated the air around her. Imperfect as the technique was, shutting her eyes to force her senses to detect motion based on yoki concentrations in the air was what allowed her to navigate through the forest of tendrils without dying.

Her sword reacted to the changes of yoki in the air reflexively, deflecting and cutting whatever she couldn't avoid herself. All around her the tendrils tried to skewer her, and by a hair's breadth she evaded them in the darkness of sightlessness.

* * *

When it became evident that holding off the tendrils was a fruitless endeavor, he made a choice: retreat and consider a second plan, or press forward and eliminate the enemy before it could potentially harm anyone.

His decision spoke much about his beliefs.

Shirou weathered the endless flood of tendrils with a sword in each hand. As the swords moved, the tendrils turned to ash, and he would find a frame of opportunity to push onwards. Within him, his connection to a distant Grail fed his diminishing supply of prana with more. And the very space about him produced more swords, each the same as the ones in his hands, spewing a miasma that turned the tendrils into ash.

The yoma couldn't touch him. A storm of its limbs tried to penetrate the vortex of steel and miasma that surrounded Shirou, but it was like fighting an alien force of nature.

Futile and incomprehensible.

He was near the root of the tendrils, at the base of the gigantic yoma's body. His proximity and threat brought him the full might of the yoma's assault; the tendrils attacking him blotted the sky over him. Steel and darkness were his weapons, but they came with a cost; the circuits thrumming with power in his soul burned as he used his power.

Two-hundred and seventy units of prana spread over twenty-seven circuits.

A single blade took him one unit of prana to create, and increasing units to alter. As such, his weapons took him sixty-one units of prana of manufacture each.

Mathematically, Shirou was already well over his limits. Only the generous trickle of prana he received from his bond with the Grail kept him upright. Still, the effect was like holding a roaring fire within his body. As the sweat beading his forehead fell down his face, he summoned all his strength to overcome the growing ferocity of the yoma's assault. The swords floating around him changed, losing their potency as their outlandish designs became more modest. In exchange, the air rippled, and steel poured forth in number to meet the yoma's tendrils.

Steel met flesh, and flesh turned into ashes.

With a screech, the yoma shuddered as its tendrils vanished into dust. Gritting his teeth, Shirou pressed forward with his two swords at hand.

What happened afterwards took but a heartbeat.

A barb the size of a small truck extruded from the yoma's towering body. It propelled itself through the air at Shirou like a missile, faster than the body could react. The touch of the miasma surrounding Shirou corroded the missile, but not quickly enough to reduce it entirely. The defense he had built of steel and curses was punctured immediately by the sheer size of the projectile, and then it closed the distance towards him.

A silver blur rushed out from the ruined forest where much of the yoma's remaining tendrils still wreaked havoc.

Penetrating the miasma with the same ease as the barb had, Shirou found himself being carried away from the path of the projectile. He was deposited with haste on the ground.

A pair of golden eyes shifting into grey met silver.

It took a moment for him to comprehend who he was seeing. She was not a ghost of his past; her eyes were different, as was her build. It was hard for him to shake off the illusion of her image, but he did.

"You are that Saint the girl spoke of, correct?" the stranger said.

_One of the witches?_

As mindless as the yoma seemed, it had no intention of letting its enemies rest. Its body produced more barbs. It fired.

_explosive two homing one_

Swords emerged from the air around him, flying like bullets at the incoming missiles. The swords exploded as they intercepted the barbs. Quickly, the sheer number of swords he produced overwhelmed the yoma's own firing rate, and the explosions cut a deep gash into the monster's side.

If the witch was surprised, she didn't express it. Instead, she headed towards the yoma in that blur of silver, and her sword plunged into the yoma's side.

Then she ran. Up.

A second gash opened up the side of the monster.

With an earsplitting scream, the yoma shook violently, dislodging the witch racing up its body. The witch flipped gracefully in the air as she fell onto her feet.

And as Saint and witch stood united against their foe, a small ripple spread.

* * *

_a/n: Somehow I got this done even with my (first) part-time job and my classes starting. I know all of you have been waiting for Clare and Shirou to meet since the very beginning. I can't promise that it'll be as 'epic' as you would like, but at the very least I'll do my best to make it interesting._


	11. Dreadspawn, Part Six

**Chapter Eleven: Dreadspawn, Part Six**

Unlike what his enemies believed, Shirou possessed limits in his ability to generate additional sword constructions. He hid this limitation in efficient use of prana, favoring low-cost Alterations until the need for stronger ones arose.

The instructor he obtained following the War drilled into him the fundamental of Numerology that now formed the basis of his magecraft. It gave him organization, discipline. The swords in his hands consumed exactly sixty-one units of prana each―one for the generation of the sword, and accumulating units of prana for each level of Alteration per Alteration type. While the Alterations themselves would plateau at a level of strength just below that of the Noble Phantasm that inspired the Alteration, they could still impose spectacular feats if combined correctly.

His strength, however, lay not in high levels of Alteration, or even in the potency of combining Alterations, but in the sheer quantity of low-level Alteration swords he could manufacture given prana recovery.

A torrent of steel met the barbs the yoma spat and completely overwhelmed them.

When the swords took on miasmic properties similar to the properties of the swords in his hands, the end was near. While the yoma itself was thousands of times larger than the swords that impaled themselves into his side, the swords that dug into its flesh swelled in number from one to a dozen to nearly a hundred. From each sword the miasma hardened the flesh it touched, culling the possibility of regeneration from that location. Shirou endured the drain it took to maintain such an offensive even as he hacked away at the monster with the swords in his hands.

Clare, too, held her own part of the struggle. Even with her enhanced speed, she lacked the ability to inflict lasting damage with her claymore alone. So she sheathed it and commandeered a pair of the miasmic swords penetrating the monster's side for her own use. Empowering her strikes with her yoki, Clare's attacks sank deeply, eventually carving an entire portion off of the monster. Great pieces of ash-covered flesh fell from the beast at the rate Clare cut. The warrior's face contorted slightly into a monstrous form from the yoki she infused herself with.

As the understanding of its impending death crept upon it, the monster bellowed and lurched forward bodily in the direction of the town.

Great curtains of its flesh fell as ash when it moved, and, in shedding this decaying flesh, the monster lost its passengers in a mad tumble towards Sandro. It tumbled, rolled, and surged until the great slab of its body gained a momentum that let it roll towards Sandro like a loose cask.

"Son of a―!" Shirou cursed as he got onto his feet.

Clare took off after the monster the second she landed. The sword she acquired from Shirley granted the warrior with sufficient speed to catch up to it.

Penetrating the exterior of the yoma with the miasmic blade, Clare struggled to hold onto the weapon as the monster's rolling body cut itself against the sword. A fine cloud of ash blew into the night as the monster broke apart until it was not even a quarter of its original size. The speed at which the monster rolled decreased until the remains of its body ceased. Its entire body was covered in cracking cakes of dust, all motion having stopped.

The warrior relaxed slightly, letting out a breath she didn't know she was holding.

The yoki empowering her beat across her flesh like a second heartbeat before it too began to fade.

She kept the foreign sword in hand as the tension flowed out of her limbs. The yoma was dead, but she believed the troubles of this night had only just begun.

She watched Shirou approach her warily, his own sword sheathed but his hand resting on its pommel. The air was palpable with tension. He was not the only one cautious about the other; though her oath as a warrior prevented her from killing him, she was not above knocking him unconscious, binding him in ropes, and interrogating him. She sensed not a modicum of yoki within him, eliminating the chance that he was one of the male warriors of ages past. Even if he was suppressing his yoki perfectly, that meant he was a danger to her as well.

When he was but a leap away, he spoke. "Is it dead?"

"It is," she answered cautiously.

He studied the decaying corpse of the yoma from afar before focusing on her. "That sword in your belt: where did you it?"

Clare loosened her grip on the weapon in question. "From a girl."

"Where is she?"

"She ran off towards town. Do you know her?"

"I do. She is... my apprentice of sorts." He glanced at the yoma's corpse again before reaching his hand out towards Clare. "I'd like to have it back, if you don't mind."

Clare hesitated. She nodded slowly. If he was an enemy, attacking her now would have been opportune. Still, she didn't know who he was. Tucking the miasmic blades into her belt, she drew the shortsword and flung it at him. Shirou snatched it out of the air easily.

Clare ventured a guess. "She told me you were the one who made it."

"Sort of."

She nodded again. "How?"

"They call me a 'Saint' back in Rabona," Shirou said with a shrug. "I met a few other like you a couple of months ago. Who are you people?"

"They call us the 'Claymore'."

"You're part-yoma. I can smell it. How does that work?"

_Smell?_

Clare turned back towards the town. "That's not information we give away so easily."

"Fair enough." He trailed behind Clare, maintaining a certain distance from her as he did. "Are all yoma around here like that one?"

"No. That one was... abnormal."

"Something like it attacked Rabona some time ago. It brought along plenty of small ones."

"What happened?"

"They died."

Clare maintained a stoic expression even in disbelief. She shook her head. "That doesn't happen... _shouldn't_ happen. It's more abnormal behavior."

"They exhibited a kind of collective intelligence," he added.

"Yoma that gain enough sustenance by feeding will undergo great physical transformations that increase its capabilities. Occasionally some develop esoteric abilities alongside those transformations." She stared thoughtfully at the moon as she walked. "I never heard of any with communal behaviors, but I could understand if there are."

"I take it you've fought a lot of these transformed yoma?"

"We call them Voracious Eaters. And I haven't. Among the warriors, I am the weakest." At Shirou's look of surprise, she tapped the pommel of the miasmic blade in her belt with a finger. "These blades of yours helped me. I would have died without them."

"I see." He smiled a little. "Glad to be of assistance."

"When you said they called you 'Saint', did you mean you are the 'Saint of Rabona' I have heard of?" she asked in return.

"I prefer 'Shirou'. What's your name?"

She was quiet at first. After consideration, she responded with, "Clare."

"Nice to meet you."

"Likewise."

The rest of their walk to town passed silently.

* * *

In retrospect, leaving behind Raki and the woman they saved had been an error in Clare's judgment. When she spotted them near the town, both looking haggard and exhausted, she realized they had run the remaining distance to Sandro.

Raki, however, brightened a noticeable degree when he saw Clare.

"Clare! Are you alright? What happened?" he asked.

"I am fine. There was a large yoma, but I had help." She looked over him to find the woman she saved that morning vanishing into a gathered crowd of townsfolk in the arms of an older man. A few villagers threw suspicious looks at her and Raki. Those she ignored. "Did anything peculiar happen when I was gone?"

Raki shook his head. "We just packed camp and ran here after you left."

Clare nodded quietly. She glanced behind her and found Shirou speaking softly to the red-haired girl she had met earlier that night. The blessed shortsword rested in the scabbard at the girl's side. Raki noticed Clare's stare, and followed it to the pair nearby.

"Do you know them?" he asked.

"He helped."

Raki gawked. "'Helped'? I-is he a Claymore like you?"

"There are no male warriors."

"I... see. Then he's a normal human?"

"I don't know."

"I didn't know there were normal humans who could fight yoma." Raki pondered. His curiosity was obvious, as was the determined look in his eyes. "Are we going to stay here for long?"

"We're leaving at dawn," Clare said.

Raki grumbled.

"Is something wrong?"

"No. I was just hoping he'd teach me something about fighting."

Clare reached for one of the blades she picked up only to find it missing. Quickly, she searched her belt. Both of the blades were gone. She whirled, searching the town for any signs of a thief. All she saw were cottages cast in darkness save the one belonging to the family of the woman they saved. What was her name? Beatrice? Bethany?

"Clare? What's wrong?" Raki asked.

Giving up her search, she said, "Nothing. Did you rent us a room at the inn?"

"Yes. Where are you going?"

"I need to speak to someone. I won't be long."

Without sparing a glance at Raki, Clare pursued the departing figure of Shirou as he accompanied the red-haired girl to large, cobblestone building in town―the inn.

Quietly, she spied them through the window, where they were greeted by the innkeeper. Shirou exchanged words with the innkeeper before leading the girl upstairs. When they disappeared, Clare entered the inn herself, ignoring the innkeeper's mix of shock and disdain. She found the room Raki had rented, and exchanged her tattered and bloodied uniform for a more modest women's dress. Exiting the room, she listened through the other doors of the inn until she found the one she was looking for.

She knocked softly.

When Shirou answered the door, she drew herself up a little. "Clare?"

Clare offered a nervous smile. "M-may I come in?"

He blinked. "Umm. Sure."

When Shirou widened the door, Clare found a spartan room with two beds, a wooden table, and two chairs on the other side. On one of the chairs were the pieces of armor Shirou had worn earlier that night. The red-haired girl was already beneath the covers of one of the beds. The sound of the girl's soft, rhythmic breathing told Clare the girl was asleep.

"Is she alright?"

"Shirley? She's fine. Just a bit shaken."

"Understandable. Very few humans encounter Voracious Eaters and live to tell the tale."

"I was worried she'd encounter a yoma on the way here. I gave her a knife that lets her, err, cut things. Didn't know how much good it'd do."

Clare looked amused. "Should... a knife do anything other than cut?"

Shirou rolled his eyes. "The one I gave her cuts through almost anything. Like stone and metal."

Instinctively, Clare locked her eyes on the sheathed knife resting on the nightstand beside Shirley's bed. The knife had a strong design, with a large handle and sturdy spine. Otherwise, it was deceptively plain-looking.

"How mysterious. Are all of your 'blessings' so... fantastic?"

"Somewhat."

She sat on the unoccupied bed gingerly, making sure to smooth the skirt of her dress as she did so.

"The boy I am traveling with is interested in training under you," she said.

"A boy? Your brother?"

She smiled. "No. He's a boy I found in a town called Doga, further out west. He's a sweet one."

"I'm training Shirley in swordsmanship now. She's a quick learner, but it's going to take a while. I'm not sure how much I can help your... _ward_."

"Ah. You're not staying then." She pouted a little. "Will you be gone by dawn?"

"No. We didn't have time to pack up camp when we were attacked. We'll need to resupply before we can leave."

"That's a shame. I had hoped we had more than a night to spend with each other."

Shirou raised a brow. "Pardon?"

She fiddled with the neckline of her dress. There was a coyish upturn to the edges of her lips. He had seen those kinds of looks before, back in Rabona; they often happened when the mugs of his fellow guards ran empty, and the women they had in their arms for the night called for a more intimate privacy. "You are quite the mysterious man. I like that. You don't mind, do you?"

Shirou frowned. "I do mind. Can you just get straight to the point?"

Clare froze. When she saw how little her efforts were affecting Shirou, she returned to her usual stoicism. Her posture straightened. It was as simple for her as taking off a mask. "I understand. I would like to request a blessing for my own use. With the yoma becoming more and more unpredictable, having a distinct advantage over them would be invaluable. I... us warriors can draw upon our yoki to enhance our speed, strength and senses to combat the yoma, but... it comes with a cost. Drawing upon too much will turn us into monsters as well."

"I see. I would like to help you out, but I can't give these away to anyone who asks nicely. It would be dangerous if they fell into the wrong hands."

Clare nodded. "I agree. What do you propose?"

Shirou furrowed his brows as he considered an answer. "I would need to know I can trust you."

"How do we agree on that?"

"You call yourself a 'warrior'. That title doesn't lend itself to any purpose beyond fighting. I'd like to know exactly what you fight for."

"We fight the yoma for the sake of the people."

Surprise took Shirou. With a smile, he muttered, "A hero of the people, huh?"

"Yes. We all have our own personal reasons, but the goal is always the same: the absolute extermination of those that prey on humanity―at any cost."

"I suppose we can get along on that front. But it doesn't tell me much about you as a person. About your own personal beliefs and dislikes." _After all, heroes have killed each other for less._ "I have an idea, though. Where are you headed?"

Clare understood his intentions. "Rabona. I was escorting the boy to somewhere safe."

"Hmm."

"I heard from others that Rabona had become a true haven against the yoma. I think I can understand why."

"Thanks, but I don't need the flattery."

"I apologize."

"Shirley and I are not headed anywhere specific. My task is to assist communities outside of Rabona with their yoma problems."

"That is what we are normally tasked to do."

He nodded. "Good. I'll give you two months. If I don't approve of how you use your blessing, then I take it away. If you do anything criminal, like killing a civilian without―"

"Killing humans is against our code of conduct," Clare interrupted.

"Oh. Well. What happens if you break it?"

"We are hunted down and killed."

Shirou grew quiet. He contemplated on his new knowledge. His opinion of Clare and her peers were only half-formed, but he sensed the world to be much darker when the half-yoma warriors were involved. "Ah. I suppose that's not much of an issue, then." _I should be careful with my questions from now on._ "Are my terms acceptable?"

Clare did not answer immediately. Thinking on the terms, she realized a problem quickly. "Those are half of the terms. What do you wish from me?"

Shirou shrugged. "I don't need much from you. Perhaps your cooperation?"

"That deal is hardly fair for you."

He smiled a little. "I like helping people."

Clare's stare grew a slight edge. "I apologize if I sound ungrateful, but I find your charity difficult to believe."

"It's a long story," Shirou said. "In short, I think that if you are risking your life to fight for the safety of strangers, then you at least deserve a little in return for your sacrifices."

"And as the 'Saint' of the Holy City, you cannot have something in return?"

Her words echoed with something in Shirou's memory. His smile grew bitter. "If you're so intent on repaying an unnecessary price for my help, then feel free. I've been told that I am a poor judge in the value of what I do... so I'll leave your half of the deal to your own decision."

"I see. Then I will accept."

* * *

_a/n: Admittedly, this is a bit rushed. I wanted to have something for the one-year milestone of this story's publication. I'll edit it when I get the time._

_Thanks to all my readers for seventy-five thousand hits and over one thousand follows. I hope you all enjoy this story for the following years. I'll get this damned story done even if I die trying._

_EDIT: Padded the final conversation up a bit. It's still so-so in terms of pacing, but hopefully it's not as fast as before._


	12. The Black Card, Part One

**Chapter Twelve: The Black Card, Part One**

It was late at night when Clare snuck out of her room at the inn in Sandro to an alley on the other side of the village.

Her eyes picked out the figure sitting on the empty crates easily enough. It was a man in black, his tunic and slacks hiding a scrawny figure beneath. Though he looked old and frail, Louvre had a mysterious air that he sported with a sly smile and a pair of dark shades. The hat on his head was what bother Clare the most.

"You choose strange company," Louvre remarked.

Clare did not comment, instead accepting the bundled package the man in black brought with him. Bound in cord and sheet was a spare uniform and pieces of armor. In the privacy of the alley behind the inn, Clare stoically shed her damaged equipment. A dented pauldron clattered on the ground beside the torn remnants of her quilted cotton suit. After undoing the cord, she evaluated and equipped the contents of the package.

Louvre continued as Clare changed. "The boy I understand. He reminds you of yourself, does he not? But I did not expect a man. I have administered to many warriors in my time in the Organization, and this is a first."

"It is nothing to be concerned of," Clare said.

Louvre smiled. "I'm not concerned. It is actually quite a welcome, _fascinating_ development."

Clare slid her blade into the specialized harness across her shoulder blades.

"You see, after the conversion process, warriors tend to lose the ability to feel interpersonal bonds with normal humans to a varying degree. It's a certain kind of apathy, if you will. It doesn't get in the way of a warrior's duty. Not often, at least. But it does create an irreversible split between the warriors and normal humans, though exceptions like Teresa exist. Love is strictly impossible for warriors to feel as far as I am aware of."

"I am not in love with anyone," Clare said.

"Exactly. Which is why I am curious about the reason you are staying with that man. You know a normal person like him is only a burden to you."

"I choose to. Is that not enough?"

"It is until your performance suffers. As number forty-seven, you have little leeway for mistakes."

Clare said nothing.

Louvre's smile fell. "Very well. I will learn more by myself. As for my other business―" He produced a black envelope from his pocket. Clare visibly froze. Idly, he turned the envelope in between his fingers. "Yes, you understand what this is."

"I-I'm not... I _haven't_―"

Louvre extended the card to her. "It is for you."

Clare accepted the envelope quietly. Turning it in her hands, she opened the envelope and found a smaller, black piece of stiff paper with a red insignia inscribed on one face. Recognizing the insignia immediately, Clare's expression hardened.

"You'd best hurry," Louvre said. "These are troubling times. Who knows what may happen?"

"The yoma have been behaving strange lately," Clare reported as she slid the black card into a fold in her uniform. "I've seen large Voracious Eaters in greater quantities, and many, many more variants of lesser yoma. They are no longer content with hiding among the people, instead overrunning entire towns with their numbers. Is there something happening that I should be aware of?"

Louvre's toothy grin was haunting. His teeth looked sharp in the moonlight.

"Does it matter?" he asked. "You are a warrior. Do as you do."

"Understood." She turned and left. Soon, the alley itself was empty.

* * *

"The Schiele Mountains?"

"Exactly northwest of them. I have a comrade waiting for me there."

Shirou studied the map laid on the table in his room. A finger traced the distance between Sandro to the lines that represented the Schiele Mountains. With a contemplative but slightly frustrated expression, he addressed Clare. "This map isn't to scale. How many days will the travel take?"

"Ten days by foot, eight by horse."

"Horse? Is there a road leading through the mountains?"

"There is."

He nodded slowly. "There are four of us now. Since you can fight, having a wagon with us might be a good option for traveling, as―"

"As one can defend and another can attack. I agree."

"And feeding four stomachs, two of them belonging to children―"

"I do not need such a luxury."

Shirou frowned. "There are four stomachs, two of them belonging to children. We will need supplies that are more appropriate for long-term travel."

"I do not believe you need to go so far."

"I don't know what your circumstances are with the boy, but I am effectively the sole guardian of Shirley. I intend to raise her as well as I can. That includes feeding her as appropriately as I am able. And it's not like we have a need for space; between us, we have four or so bags to carry, as well as four bed rolls. Furthermore, Shirley doesn't have the physique for extensive travel. Late in the day, she gets slower. Having a wagon will be convenient for her."

"If we are pursued, we will need to escape. A lighter wagon would be prudent."

"We can take care of small issues. The ones we need to look out for are the big ones and the swarms. Between the both of us, we should be able to avoid them."

"I don't like it." Clare stared at the map on the table. "But I understand."

"You are right to say we should overburden the horses. I'll be reasonable when it comes to the supplies. Four or five days' worth of food at most."

"Very well."

"Is your meeting with your comrade an urgent matter?"

"Yes."

"It is early enough. I can get everything now and leave before noon."

"I would appreciate it."

"Alright. I'll be off, then. If you see Shirley, please let her know I've gone out. I'll meet you all back here when I'm done."

"Very well."

Shirou left the room quickly. Clare spared a glance around the room, her eyes lingering on the bag on one of the beds. Curiosity piqued her interest; however, she refrained from intruding into the bag. She reasoned with herself on the value of patience. That Shirou seemed genuine in his promise to lend her his abilities helped.

When she turned to leave the room, Clare found Shirley standing at the entrance.

The girl looked surprised and nervous. "H-hello. What are you doing here?"

"I was planning on our next destination with Shirou."

"Shirou was here?"

"He just left to buy supplies. We decided to purchase a medium-sized wagon for traveling convenience. He felt it was appropriate to stock it."

"I-I see."

Clare's gaze fell upon the sword and knife on Shirley's belt. "That sword," Clare said. "It was very helpful. You said Shirou created it?"

"Uh. This?" Shirley rested her hand on the pommel of the sword. "Yes, he did. I mean, he said the sword was a gift from the guards, and that he, umm, 'blessed' the sword for me." She caressed the weapon gently with her hand. A slightly flush colored her cheeks. "It was personally handled by Shirou. I... I-I treasure this gift dearly."

"I can see that. You have cleaned it well. May I?"

Shirley hesitated. Slowly, she pulled the sheath from its fastener on her belt and handed the sword politely to Clare.

Though the craftsmanship was only slightly above average, the blade was more than fascinating for the warrior. As she drew the weapon, she basked in the rush of power that surged within her. It was like first experiencing the touch of the ocean breeze after walking the desert for ages. As she swung the blade slowly, Clare pondered on how she would adjust to this power if Shirou applied such a blessing to her own claymore. So captured she was in her dreams that warrior didn't notice Shirley calling her out of her reverie.

"My apologies," Clare said immediately, returning both weapon and scabbard to a slightly annoyed Shirley. "I was recalling the fight last night."

"It's okay. Shirou told me you are a good person, so I don't mind."

"I have the impression that he is an honest man."

Shirley nodded. "He is a saint in Rabona. There were yoma that attacked the city. My..." Her voice cracked a little. "My mama and papa died. Shirou saved the city with his holy powers. He... knew my family from before. We lived in a bakery, and he lived nearby. When he learned that I was... alive, he took me in. I know from living with him that he is a hard worker, that he is honest, fair, and very brave."

Clare watched the girl turn beat red. "Is there a reason why he didn't save your parents?"

After a moment of silence, Shirley answered softly, "I think that the gods work in mysterious ways. Mama and papa were meant to go. I think all of Rabona was meant to fall. And Shirou... despite the wishes of the gods, Shirou protected us anyway. And I think that if he could, he would have saved my family too." She stared at the scabbard in her hands. "Sometimes, in the night, I see Shirou look so sad when he thinks I am asleep. I don't think he has family. I think he wanted to help me, but now I don't have a family either."

"I understand."

"I think the gods saw his sadness, pitied him, and chose me to help him. I... _want_ to help him. And I will." Shirley leveled a fierce look at Clare. "He told me you are a nice person. I trust him, so I will listen.

"B-but, if you hurt him, or _think _about hurting him, I'm going to hurt you back."

"Noted."

* * *

Raki swung the stick he had found in an alley as quickly as he could. He stumbled when the movement of the stick overbalanced him, and he fell on his elbow.

Wincing, he rose onto all fours. Looking up, he saw Shirou watching him.

"You okay?" the man asked.

Flushing with embarrassment, Raki dropped the stick on the ground. It clattered noisily, drawing Shirou's attention. The boy cursed in his mind. "Y-yeah. I was just, um, playing around." Raki laughed nervously. "Where are you heading?"

"Into town. I'm getting a wagon and some supplies. Do you want to come with?"

"Okay."

Abandoning his stick, Raki left the alley and followed Shirou down the street where the inn they stayed at stood, and out to a wider street that led to the village's square. Being a small village, Sandro had an equally small center; however, in his mind, Shirou found what the village had adequate for his needs. In an agrarian settlement like Sandro, wagons were aplenty as they were necessary for transporting crops during harvest seasons. There were fewer horses than he had hoped, as horses didn't provide goods like cows, sheeps, nor pigs did; and did not work as well as bulls when it came to plowing. Raki was quiet until he and Shirou obtained a pair of horses, a wagon, and harnesses to attach the wagon to the horses.

It was when the sun was nearly at its height that he broke the silence.

"Mister Shirou, are you a soldier?" Raki asked suddenly.

Shoving camping supplies into a crate on the wagon, Shirou answered distractedly. "No. I am a guard captain at Rabona."

"Can you teach me how to fight?"

"Why?"

"Clare knows how to fight. She told me you know how to fight, too. And... your daughter―"

"Shirley is not my daughter."

Raki blinked. "Oh. She's not? I thought―"

"Her parents are dead. They... a yoma attack happened in Rabona a few months ago. They didn't make it."

"Oh."

"I don't recommend you mention it to her."

"Okay. But, uh, she has a sword."

"I gave it to her."

"You're teaching her how to fight."

"Yes."

"I don't want to be the only one who can't do anything when we're out there."

Shirou chuckled a little. "I understand." Closing the lid of the crate, he jumped off the wagon and began lifting a barrel onto the vehicle. Raki assisted him quickly. "Thanks. But Shirley isn't ready for fighting yoma just yet. She doesn't have enough experience, and she still makes lots of mistakes." He set the barrel down on the wagon easily. "If we ever get attacked out there, the both of you will stay on the wagon for a most part while Clare and I deal with the threat."

"I still want to learn."

"Fine. I'll teach you what I can."

"R-really?"

"No reason not to. I'd rather not have you fight anytime soon, but... if neither Clare nor I are around when you get into trouble, it's better that you know how to look after yourself."

Raki fumbled for words. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it. It's better if Shirley has someone in her skill level to spar with. And you don't have to swing around a branch like you did earlier." At Raki's sputtering, Shirou had a good-natured laugh. "There's nothing to be embarrassed about. We all start somewhere.

"Now, help me get some food for the road."

"Okay!"

Raki ran off to where the local farmers sold their goods. While he was initially worried about obtaining food during poor seasonal harvests, Shirou found his worries were for naught. As the world seemed to exist on a constant state of mid-spring and or even early summer, the only factor affecting harvests were the rate at which crops grew. Even from afar Shirou saw that the markets were filled with vegetables and grains. Still, such a thing could only remain possible if the village were protected from yoma attacks as the safety of the farmers was paramount to continued harvests. His observation only accentuated his thoughts about securing the village.

Indeed, the only true danger in this land seemed to be the yoma.

Growing increasingly conscious of Sandro's lack of protection against these monsters, Shirou grew disquieted inside. His ability to detect the yoma stemmed from his own minor ability to 'smell' what was abnormal, a skill he learned from an old friend of his. It was not something he could improve upon quickly, if at all anymore. In other words, if a monster took another villager, it was very possible he would never know.

No, even if he did, it would be meaningless if villagers continued to disappear after his departure.

It was a realization that conflated with his awareness of his own inadequacies.

His train of thought visited a memory from his old home in Fuyuki. Back then, Kiritsugu called him a hero for saving the dreams of a dying failure. And though he considered himself a hero since then, Shirou was beginning to believe that it would no longer be enough.

After all, how could he defeat an enemy that was everywhere?

* * *

_a/n: Hey folks. Getting this out now since the semester is ending and my papers are due this month. Hope you enjoy._


	13. The Black Card, Part Two

**Chapter Thirteen: The Black Card, Part Two**

The "world" was split into four parts: Alfons, Sutare, Mucha, and Lautrec.

Alfons was the northern quadrant. It was a split by a river running west to east. Snow and ice encrusted the numerous mountains of Alfons, nestling at its heart a volcano.

Sutare, the eastern lands, was a dry desert that grew into cliffs riddled with caves hollowed by the wind.

Mucha, in comparison, fared better. The south was made of long, green plains and low steppes that ended with mountains bordering the very edges of the quadrant.

Then there was Lautrec, the west. They crossed the wastelands that gave way to small hills and a river, and then further west, to the plateaus and tall mountains. Two horses—one dark brown with a black mane and tail and the other slightly red with a healthy coat—drew their covered box wagon along the bumpy road west in six days. Only once did they stop at a town to restock their supplies, for Clare's silent urgency ushered them to keep going. On the sixth day, they reached Shire, a small town built at the base of a grey plateau within a valley of plateaus.

"Please stay here," was all Clare said to Shirou before she left by herself. In Shirou's mind, Clare seemed resolute before departing. It was enough to make him worry a little.

But then, what else could he expect?

Clare remained an aloof woman in the week he had known her. Her sense of morality allowed him to relate to her, but that meant little in terms of her total self. Her countenance gave him the impression that she was one who secluded herself on purpose. She was nothing like the women in his memory—neither the one with the unfaltering faith nor the one who held herself to impossibly high standards.

—And yet, comparing Clare to those women was perhaps unfair.

No, all he could do was respect her wishes.

Shire was not a bad place to stay. As it was built beside a plateau, a great shadow kept the town cool for most of the morning. Near noon, the town basked in the sun's rays. This far into the west, Shire prospered mostly as a trading town; however, further down the rugged path that lead to Shire's borders, farmers cultivated wide fields that sat upon terraces carved into the cliffside. Artificial canals drew water from lakes and small streams to nourish crops that would otherwise dry up beneath the sun. The complexity of the agricultural arrangement was impressive compared to what Shirou had seen.

As for the town itself, he could not help but compare it to Rabona. As the town was built upon sloped ground, the townsfolk carved terraces to support their structures as well. Split into three layers, Shire ascended and descended with the stone.

Unsurprisingly, the structures were built with stone. They ranged from short houses to tall buildings. They all took various shades of white and grey, with red sloped rooves. The streets were understandably narrow, but, being made of stone, they were as well-kept as the streets of Rabona. The wagon rattled only a little as the horses clopped leisurely over the road.

After finding an inn to stay at, Shirou decided to make due on his offer to teach Raki swordsmanship.

At the same time, he continued to watch over Shirley's progress. It became obvious that his students were of opposite qualities; whereas Shirley possessed dexterity and reflexes, Raki showed potential strength as a boy. However, Raki's potential would remain untapped so long as he had remained untrained, thus:

"Twelve. Keep going."

Groaning, Raki shakily performed another push up.

"Thirteen. Another."

This time, the boy's arms gave way and he collapsed into an unruly heap.

"Thirteen. Next time you do this, I expect you to do the same number or more."

Between breaths, Raki managed to say, "Okay."

Nearby, Shirley continued her own exercise diligently. Like Raki, she was in a short-sleeve linen tunic and pants, and her hair was tied into a bun to keep it out of her face. Under her breath, Shirley counted her repetitions. Shirou overheard her—"twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight"—and decided to focus on Raki's needs until Shirley was done. As Raki struggled onto his feet, Shirou handed the boy a wooden sword and ushered him to another side of the open lawn behind the inn they stayed at. Shirou ignored the onlookers spectating from the windows of the inn beside them. As the lawn was a convenient space to practice in, with no grass beside the dried patches along the corners, bearing the curiosity of an audience was a small price to pay.

"We're going to drill forms," Shirou said. "First form."

He turned to present his shoulder forward. His feet arranged in perpendicular directions.

Raki mimicked the stance. "No. Sword parallel to the ground. A little more. Now your feet; you need to be able to shift your weight forward at a moment's notice. Move it to your right. Okay. Ideally you would have a shield to defend against a yoma's first attacks, but they aren't necessary. Instead, you'll be focusing on a thrusting maneuver. That will maximize your weapon's reach."

Showing Raki the sword thrust, he watched the boy repeat the technique, adjusting his positioning whenever he moved wrongly.

"Shirou? I've finished my warm up," said Shirley.

"Good. Practice the first, second, and third forms. Alternate between them, and repeat. When Raki is done, you'll be sparring with him."

Shirley did as she was told.

"Shirou, why do I need to learn this?" Raki asked as he practiced. "This isn't like..."

"'This isn't like what Clare does', were you going to say that?" Raki nodded bashfully. Shirou chuckled. "Strength training, reaction training, and footwork training are the building blocks of everything you need to learn basic combat. Power, agility, mobility, and skill define the four cornerstones of survival against yoma, do you understand? Not to mention, you'll need to learn the discipline required to practice for extended periods of time. You won't get anything out of this if you go in half-heartedly.

"Take Shirley, for example. She's been doing her strength exercises, so now she can hit harder. Her reflexes are improving, as is her footwork, so she can avoid a yoma's attacks more easily. The footwork also helps with her form, making her movements more fluid."

"How long have you been teaching her?"

"Since we left Rabona. That was about eleven days ago."

The pair watched Shirley repeat the pattern of movements by herself. Though she was sweating, she maintained the breathing rhythm as Shirou had taught her.

"I likened my father to be a hero when I was young," Shirou said nostalgically. "I aspired to be a hero like him. Before he died, he told me that I had saved him from a sad death, and that I was already a hero. I learned how to use the sword so I can protect the people that I need to protect, as my father would have wanted me to. Shirley, she... well, she'll tell you when she wants to. And Clare, she fights to kill yoma." He looked at Raki from the corner of his eye. "I take it you want to learn to fight for a reason. Focus on that as you swing. That purpose will guide you to move forward."

Raki shut his eyes, remembering the monsters that took his home. "I understand."

"Good. Now do it again, your form is messy."

"Okay."

* * *

The wagon had reached Shire in the early morning.

Since then, Clare had traveled to the meeting location specified on the black card. The few words she had exchanged with Shirou regarding her objectives made her wishes clear: this would be a personal matter, as all was business between warriors like herself.

_We are always conscious of our own mortality, for every day we must gamble our lives against fate._

Climbing the winding slopes up the plateau Shire rested beneath, Clare reached the top alone. Standing atop this particular plateau and staring into the dreary, clouded sky was a familiar sight. She was tall, with long hair that was once brown but was now golden like her own. Her quilted uniform had a layer of sand over it, and the metal parts of her armor had a few scratches on them.

When Clare stopped, the warrior waiting for her turned.

_When we reach the limit of our struggle against the yoma within us, we become aware of our end._

"It has been a while, Clare."

Clare relaxed a little. "Elena. You haven't changed. You look as you did back then."

"As do you. In fact, it feels like yesterday since we first met, though it has been a such a long time ago. I hope you're also doing well."

_When the end comes, we neither fear it nor embrace it. It simply must happen._

"I am. Things have been hectic as of late, but... I have hope."

"Ah. I'm envious, Clare. We don't find much hope. Where did you get yours?"

"From a stranger I met." Clare showed Elena the black envelope she had gotten from Louvre. "Do you recognize this Elena?"

"What is that?"

"You gave me your black card."

_The black card is our last hope for a peaceful death. Upon its face is the symbol we bear, imprinted upon it with the color of our old blood._

Elena's smile remained. "It was a joke, Clare. I was getting lonely."

"Elena, how long have you been waiting for me?"

"About twelve days."

Clare sighed softly. "I am sorry."

_As warriors, our deaths will be brutal. But with this card, we can meet our deaths on our terms._

"Don't worry, Clare. You're here now. We can return to town together. Truthfully, I'm a little famished. Do you think anyone down there is tasty?"

Drawing her sword, Clare stood in Elena's way. There was no emotion in her eyes.

"Clare, can you move aside? I'm quite hungry," Elena asked with the same smile.

"I cannot do that."

_The card is a plea for help. A suicide note. A last wish._

"Very well." Elena's face melted away as her body shifted. Her bones cracked loudly as her quilted armor tore from her expanding body. Her limbs deformed, lengthening and squirming bonelessly. As Elena's hair fell off, Clare bit her lip and charged forward, her blade sinking into Elena's flesh. One of Elena's tendrils wrapped around the blade, holding it in place. "You make me sad, Clare," Elena whispered in a deep voice. "I thought we were comrades—sisters. Clearly, I was delusional." Elena curled the set of tendrils that occupied the place of her former arms. The mouth over her chest gaped open. "For you deceit, you will pay with your body. Feed me!"

One of her tendrils lashed out, the underside covered with teeth.

Clare released her blade in order to evade. She grabbed Elena's blade, which had fallen onto the ground during Elena's transformation, and wielded it for herself.

The face that protruded from the layers of webbed skin bridging the tendrils together smirked arrogantly. It contained none of the warmth Clare once knew Elena had. Elena freed Clare's blade from her flesh and threw it over the edge of the plateau. Then she braced herself against a thicker tendril that acted as a third leg and pushed off of it, torpedoing toward Clare with her tendrils outstretched.

_The card is given to the one we want to put us out of our misery. This person, more often than not, is the one we trust our lives to the most._

Clare clutched the sword in her hands tightly before meeting her old friend.

Elena's scream curled Clare's nerves. It was not a pleasant sound to hear. It reminded her of the times when they were still young, learning how to handle the blade, and the punishments that their retainers inflicted to the girls that lacked discipline. Ironically, the scream too reminded her of the times when the pain of being physically transformed to adapt the flesh of monsters became too much to bear. Still, Clare pressed on, using Elena's sword to sever the tendrils that came too close, drawing her old friend's blood.

With teeth as sharp as a wild beast's, Elena lunged to bite Clare's neck. Clare evaded her narrowly, ducking beneath Elena's massive body before rolling to the side.

Her sword drew blood again.

As violet spilled upon the dry, hard dirt, Elena cried out again, blood spilling from her lipless mouth. Clare didn't stop. Again Elena's sword lashed out, drawing blood from its old master. Elena's right side fell with a meaty slap, tendrils thrashing. Before Clare could land another blow, Elena leapt onto rocky outcropping nearby.

_Due to the nature of our lives, this person would be the last one we would call family._

Clare pointedly ignored the pained grimace on Elena's face, the sword in her hand flashing with great ferocity.

"Clare! Stop it, it hurts!" Elena pleaded.

Cutting through Elena's screen of tendrils, Clare thrust the tip of the blade into Elena's left side. She shoved the blade violently down Elena's flank, severing her other set of tendrils.

With an agonized howl, Elena leapt again, baring her teeth, this time catching the meat between Clare's neck and left shoulder in her jaws. Biting down, Clare's blood colored her quilted armor a dark purple. It didn't deter Clare from acting—taking the sword in her right hand, she swung at Elena's legs, taking them both. The warrior's face hardened against the pain as Elena's teeth held on. Pushing the sword into the earth, Clare reached out with her free hand and dug her fingers into Elena's face.

Veins covered Clare's hand as she squeezed.

_In many cases, our fellow warriors look at each other as sisters._

Elena's hold slackened slowly. Drawing on her yoki to increase her strength, Clare threw Elena down upon the plateau. Elena's whimper reached her ears but there was a greater duty to accomplish here. There was no room for hesitation, no room for pity or remorse. The lessons that her retainers in the Organization surfaced then, reminding her of the skin masks that yoma wore.

Just as the yoma were beasts that preyed on flesh, the yoma too preyed on the hearts of their victims, drawing upon the love and faith its prey had to protect itself.

Monsters, the lot of them. Monsters that she had accepted the blood of.

_They are our very last anchor to humanity._

The violence did not end as quickly as Clare wished. With a roar of frustration, Elena's limbless body shuddered beneath the warrior. More tendrils erupted from Elena's wounds, forcing Clare to make distance. Whirling the sword, she fended off any tendrils that drew too close. The teeth on some of the tendrils became barbs that struck the blade like metal.

Elena began reforming her legs, abet slowly. Meanwhile, tendrils extended from her body to assault Clare from the distance.

The attacks were not like before. Elena was desperate. The tendrils struck from every direction, in intervals that covered the delays between the attacks of other tendrils. Clare found herself being herded towards the cliff, something she could not accept. Especially for an offensive warrior that invested her yoki into increasing her fighting abilities like herself, Clare could not absorb damage indefinitely. With the wound near her neck throbbing from pain, Clare concentrated her yoki upon her right arm.

The tendrils that were almost overwhelming her before swarmed forward.

Clare's right arm strained from the yoki empowering it. At the same time, yoki flowed into her wound, and tissue repaired itself. Even when she found use of both of her arms, Clare was hard-pressed to defend herself from Elena's assault.

_And in our sisters, we must put all of our worn faith._

She took a risk. A gamble. Instead of concentrating on protecting herself, Clare focused on breaking through. The sword in her hand ran wild as it cut through the thickest concentration of tendrils with a single swing. Clare ran through the gap, ignoring the gashes cut into her arms and sides as the remaining tendrils struck her. Instead, she concentrated single-mindedly on taking Elena's head.

As more yoki circulated her body, Clare's body pulsed with a second beat.

Whirling, the warrior cut through Elena's hastened defenses and sank the blade into Elena's heart.

Elena's tendrils fell as one. Clare pressed Elena into the ground with the sword violently. Elena struggled to rise, only to fail against Clare's overwhelming strength. With heavy coughs that splattered blood over Clare's face, Elena brought her tendrils to embrace Clare with great effort. The remaining warrior did not resist, instead falling beside the impaled sword to rest her head against Elena's body.

Elena whispered in her ear, "It'll be okay, Clare. Stay like this and it'll be okay."

As the monster died in her arms, Clare let out tears for her last friend.

However, she did not cry.

_For inevitably, when we near our deaths, we must pray we do not become the monsters we kill._

Shutting her eyes, Clare prayed. The yoki in her body broke free from Clare's control, and, for just a moment, overwhelmed her.

In the darkness of unconsciousness, Clare saw Teresa smiling at her.

* * *

_a/n:__ So I'm about fifteen or so minutes late for Christmas, but you know what they say: the best presents are the ones you didn't expect!_

_Anyway, I ended up using the show as a reference for the setting of this scene. I've been trying to work on the imagery of this story, as well as the thematic elements that I think a crossover between_ _these two series would bring up_._ In a later edit I might include the image of the ruined monastery from the show into the final scenes, but this is what I have for now._

_I've also added more visual descriptions as per the suggestion of one of my readers. I don't want to fill my chapters with unnecessary fluff, but I do think that some might be good once in a while to flesh out the "world"._

_Hope you all have (had) a great holiday, folks! Enjoy my (late) gift!_


	14. Cold-Blooded, Part One

**Chapter Fourteen: Cold-Blooded, Part One**

Trees fell like wheat to a scythe during the autumn harvest. The earth shook with the thunder of toppling trunks and heavy footsteps. A single, high-pitched cry pierced the air of the forest. The maniac laughter of a lone woman joined it.

"It's here! Open up!"

Rising to the words of their temporary leader, the warriors hefted their swords, ready to fight.

Their trembling arms told a different story. Sweat trickled down the forehead of the warrior ranked thirty-six as she watched the egg that had been resting in the earth become―_more_. The pattern of veins that once crisscrossed over the soft but firm surface of the egg darkened black for a brief second before disappearing into the paling flesh entirely. Then, the spherical shape of the egg abruptly warped; the fleshy cover burst open, scattering yellow pus, dark flecks of ichor, and water every which way. And then, there was the yoki pouring from the newly hatched egg, choking the warriors closest to the egg with its pressure.

The head that rose from the hatched egg was comically small compared to the mountain of flesh attached to it. But that head, with its collection of black, bulging eyes, locked its gaze on the warriors even as its first cry escaped its hook-shaped mandibles.

The twelfth ranked warrior recovered her composure the quickest. She began to slowly back away from the creature.

The warrior ranked at thirty-two was not so sharp.

"C-captain Ophelia, what do we―"

A single swipe of the monster's tendril turned the panicking warrior into a loose puddle of flesh, blood, and bone.

Immediately, the other warriors scattered. Naturally, a warrior of rank twelve or thirty-six could not challenge a monster of such a size. Perhaps a group of single-digit warriors, the veterans among the warriors, would be able to topple the creature. However, the warrior called Ophelia disregarded the frantic thumping of her heart. As adrenaline invigorated her body, she lifted her claymore with single arm and charged at the monster. Her lips stretched across her face in a maddened smile, for there was nothing the fourth ranked warrior indulged in more than in violence.

As if sensing a challenger, the monster turned its attention to the approaching warrior. Its tendrils, snapping trees in their path, twisted and converged on Ophelia.

Her sword blurred.

The first tendril that met Ophelia's blade was torn apart. The second met the same fate. The third reached for her legs, curling around her right ankle before hurling her at the cliffs that overlooked the clearing. Ophelia controlled her flight, bending her legs to absorb the impact of her body against the bluffs. Stones and dirt loosened from her impact against the cliff tumbled to the earth.

Ophelia rocketed through the air, using the treetops as landing points to reenter the fight.

The monster's tendrils shuddered before bones like thorns rose from their skin. When they met Ophelia's blade, a harsh clash resounded. Ophelia's smile grew toothier.

Several tendrils tried to strike Ophelia from behind as the first trapped her blade. She yanked her weapon free, cutting the tendril along the skin between its bone barbs, and leapt, somersaulting at the height of her jump.

Between the scream of the yoma and her own hammering heart, Ophelia listened to the words in the wind that blew past her as she fell.

The voice fused with her own rushing adrenaline, becoming an anger that burned in her belly.

That very same fire drained the rest of her body of its heat.

The blurring of her sword became a ripple. Her arm vibrated as the blade it carried met the yoma's reaching limbs. This time, her sword snaked around the tendrils, cutting them apart along the seams of flesh that held together the bone. Still, the bones along the tendril drew the warrior's own blood as they drew cuts along the skin. Blood spilled messily.

Ophelia cackled as she landed on one of the tendrils that now spread across the forest. The yoma spread its appendages across the woods and consumed the wildlife it caught. Ophelia simply sank the tip of her claymore into the tendril she stood upon and marveled at the blood that spurt from the wound.

It was like a rich, violet-colored ambrosia in her eyes.

Her sword was the herald of such a gem. It was a key that revealed the beauty of this world.

Still, with its blood pouring from its wound, the yoma showed no sign of fear or hesitation. The scent of its own blood in the air seemed to aggravate it, even. It continued to swarm Ophelia with its tendrils; however, there was a growing intelligence in the way it did so―flanking her, surrounding her, warding off her attacks by positioning its appendages at her weak spots. The momentum of their fight shifted from one side to the other when Ophelia struck at one of the trunk-like tendrils, only to find smaller ones curled around her arm that gripped her sword. With its opponent restrained, the yoma launched the rest of its body at her, the fleshy body splitting open at various locations to reveal gaping jaws hidden behind the tendrils.

A meaty snap raced up Ophelia's arm as she exchanged her blade to her other arm. Her now dislocated arm dangled in her wake, free from the monster's clutches. She cut apart a majority of the tendrils racing at her, and managed to escape through the opening she created. However, as a sharp pain made itself known to her, Ophelia realized she had not gotten away unscathed. There was a large gash running down between her armpit and her breast.

Her own lifeblood seeped into the quilted layers of her uniform.

It

mesmerized

her.

The muscle of her dislocated arm bulged and flexed. With a crack, the arm popped back into the socket using the contractions of the muscles around the shoulder.

Dark veins climbed up her neck, coloring her pale cheeks black and blue. With a smile that stretched her cheeks, Ophelia laughed and screamed, flooding her body with yoki. She became a blur racing towards the monster. Intentionally, she charged into the countless tendrils branching off of the monster's body. They fell from the monster one by one, severed by a flickering sword.

The yoma's attempt at retaliating was met with an absolute resistance, for its tendrils never found their target.

From bleeding stumps, more tendrils burst forth. Ultimately, they too were severed.

Ophelia kept laughing. She laughed at the rush, the hammering of her heart, the agony of the monster's wails, the beauty of the blood splattering upon her face―at all of it.

Cuts began appearing upon the monster's main body when its tendrils ran out.

Thrashing in pain, the monster tried to flee. It tucked its body within folds of extra flesh and leaned forward to roll way only for the bend of its body to give way. Ophelia's blade carved the yoma apart so quickly, it was as if the flesh itself could no longer support the monster's size.

The flickering blade twisted like a snake about to strike down its prey. Its remaining body was torn apart so violently that pieces flew upward. Blood rained from the sky as Ophelia's rampage declined. Violet flecks fell upon Ophelia's outstretched tongue. Her cheeks flushed with excitement as the dark veins retreated beneath her armor. She drank from the shower of gore hungrily.

Before the fire would die and the heat would return to her veins, she would bask in the thrill, numb and high.

It was all she lived for.

* * *

'Windcutter' Flora, the eighth ranked warrior, was at a loss.

When she was younger, and still human, her mother taught her the mercy of the twin goddesses Teresa and Clare. Mercy was everything to them, for her father had died long ago and left behind nothing. The mercy of their town's local clergy was what kept them alive. And though the chants and stories she knew as a girl have long faded from her memory, dirtied by dried blood and old nightmares, she sheltered a spark of what she once was.

For warriors like her do not die normal deaths. Either they fall to a yoma, or become yoma themselves. Or perhaps they would take the final decision.

No matter what, the cold touch of a natural death, of old age, was forever out of their reach.

It could only be called a curse of longevity.

It was a curse that withered her memories away, leaving only a husk, a shadow of herself. It drained away one's will to live until they could only take their death into their own hands. She could bear this curse only due to that spark from her youth guiding her way. Flora once believed in the kindness in humans, in the mercy she trusted in as a girl.

Naturally, that mercy no longer applied to her when she became a warrior.

Still, that did not mean such mercy was gone from the world. As a warrior, Flora found that the sword in her hand dispensed that mercy she could no longer have for the sake of others. Hers was the hand that saved.

It seemed right, then, that when she left Ophelia's command, Flora sought out the first person in mind: the Saint.

For in many ways, both literally and figuratively, she found that mercy she saw as a girl.

Unfortunately, when she returned to the Holy City, she learned that the Saint had long gone. He embarked on a pilgrimage to cleanse the land of yoma, or so the townsfolk she asked had said. It was her intention to pursue him, join him in that pilgrimage. With a supply of yoki-suppressants, she traveled west in the wake of the Saint's trail. So focused on her goal she was that spotting a familiar face while on the road was both relieving and disappointing. Two warriors met in a nameless village the northeastern border of Lautrec, hidden beneath cloaks to avoid the eyes of villagers.

One warrior smiled. "Flora."

Flora nodded politely, as she always did. "Galatea."

"I received word that you were around. I thought the Organization sent you with Ophelia to observe one of the strange phenomena further west."

Shrinking back slightly into her cloak, Flora nodded again. "They did. I left."

"You? Left? That is strange of you to do so."

"I understand. However, I could not stand Ophelia's behavior for much longer, and instead I decided to continue my duties. When I had left, there was nothing to report regarding that oddity, after all." Flora glanced at a passing villager's face. She frowned before returning her gaze to Galatea. "I am surprised to have met you here, Galatea. Our paths very rarely cross."

Galatea's smile took upon a sardonic look. "I know. I've been following you."

Flora stiffened.

"What have you been doing, Flora? You have taken suppressants for a week. Your eyes are hazel again." When Flora looked away, Galatea sighed. "I could barely sense you yesterday. Today is no different. I understand that you are trying to remain discreet. However, I do not see why. The Organization has not sent you on any other mission since your assignment with Ophelia."

Flora did not answer the unspoken question. She did not reach for her sword, which was hidden beneath the cloak on her back, either. Among the single-digit warriors, Galatea was one of the few she trusted.

But she dared not speak. God-Eye Galatea could see the truth.

"Flora." Galatea's tone was almost like that of a mother addressing her daughter, or of an elder sister addressing a younger sister. It held an intimate gentleness that made Flora second guess her decision. "While I do not mind that you are pursuing your own goals, you must remember that the Organization watches your every move. Perhaps it may not be me they call upon. It may be Ophelia, should you be so unlucky. Or perhaps Rafaela. You must take care to shield your intentions from their eyes."

"I understand," said Flora. "Why did you chose to tell me this?"

"He went westward. He may be near Shire."

For an instant, Flora's soft features gave way to shock. "How did you...?"

"Number forty-seven is with him. I have been asked by the Organization to observe her, as well as him."

"I see."

"Take care. Don't force me to do anything drastic." With those parting words, Galatea left.

Digesting the message, Flora understood that not everything was what it seemed. She could predict why number forty-seven would follow the Saint. However, she could not comprehend why was there a need for the Organization to send Galatea to observe the Saint. If it were a consideration of partnership, then there was no need to send an observer. Certainly, she held no fantasy of the Organization turning into a kind of holy chapter either. The Organization was, at its very core, a very secluded group―secretive, quiet, and...

_Tainted._

Though the thought was unconsciously made, Flora could not shrug off the sense of filth that clung to her body. She felt impure, bloodstained, and rotten.

Gathering herself, she thought no more. She went westward as suggested by Galatea.

Tainted, but hopeful.

* * *

_a/n: Blame my new computer for seducing me into playing video games rather than writing. Also, R.I.P. old laptop (scraptop, craptop, etc.) November 2012 _―_ January 2016. She died doing the right thing._


	15. Cold-Blooded, Part Two

**Chapter Fifteen: Cold-Blooded, Part Two**

"_You wish for me to follow number forty-seven?" Galatea repeated slowly._

"_Yes. It is a matter of utmost importance, I assure you. Find her, then keep track of her and the man she is with." She made sure not to show any sign of surprise. There were men in this world who didn't care for the warriors' reputation, so enchanted by their beauty they were. She had seen such men before in her years, and had even been the passing fancy of several. But the interest of a man always ends when they see the stigma wrought on her body. No, a man with a warrior was not so special―simply an ill-fated bond._

_But for Louvre himself to have taken an interest? That was something in of itself. She considered her next words, searching for a way to press for more without seeming intrusive. "Should I expect trouble from number forty-seven and this man she is with?"_

_It was rare to see him express anything beside his usual false affability. Pacing the stone-carved conference room within the heart of Staff, Louvre seemed deep in thought._

"_You should be able to handle forty-seven without trouble. After all, you are the 'God-Eye'," Louvre finally said. While wracking her brain for explanations, he continued. "The man she is with is an unknown factor. If he shows signs of aggression, push him to act, but do not provoke his ire. Keep track of his behavior as if he were a warrior himself." Louvre did not seem to notice the surprise that briefly registered on her face. She schooled her features quickly. "Should anything odd occur in an encounter, report back here immediately. I want to know what happens, no matter how ridiculous it seems. Understood?"_

"_Yes, sir."_

"_Is there anything you wish to add, Herman?"_

"_His swords." Galatea whirled reflexively at the new voice, her sword leaving its sheath in the process. A blond man in his late thirties faced the tip of her claymore with an amused smile. She shuddered when she met his blue eyes. "Stay wary of his swords. And his bow, as well. Report to me as many variations of his swords as you can learn. I need to know how his abilities work."_

_Naturally, confusion settled in her. Louvre's lack of reaction to this man's presence meant he belonged here. And that she needed to show obedience. "I understand."_

"_That is all. Do your duty."_

"_Go," Louvre said. Galatea bowed slightly, and departed from the conference room._

_She moved silently through the torchlit halls. The halls of the Organization, carved from the very plateaus in the east, had a stifling air to them. She would see the occasional handler pass by, each of them in woven armor covered with flowing robes. Cloth masks covered their faces to protect against the sand that the wind carried. She would catch glimpses of a young girl or two in these dark corridors, the faces of a generation that would come to be. Warriors, warrior trainees, and men that turned common girls into monsters―how poetic it was for these dead lands to be their home._

_She wondered how long it would take for the rest of the world to become like this._

_In their hands._

"_Galatea, was it?"_

_She hid her surprise when the stranger from earlier, Herman, emerged from the shadowy passageway before her._

_How he had gotten ahead of her, she had no idea._

"_Did you need me for something?" Galatea asked cautiously._

_She didn't know whether this man deserved the disciplined approach the rest of the Organization's handlers demanded from her._

_Herman smiled genteelly, but Galatea wasn't fooled. There was an edge to this man's presence that made her wary of him, regardless of his well-behaved he seemed. After all, the Organization did not involve normal men. And no normal man could look at her with such calculating eyes. Disgust, perhaps―but not evaluation._

"_I hear praise of you from the others here," he said offhandedly. "I thought to introduce myself to you, the number three. I am Herman von Grimm." He bowed slightly. The coat he wore was strange, made of a leather that was all too neat, too clean for the wastelands of the east. "I am here to assist the Organization in mobilizing all of its warriors, including numbers one and two."_

Alicia and Beth_, Galatea named in a heartbeat._

_She bowed low. "I greet you, von Grimm. We appreciate your presence, and eagerly await the emergence of our sisters."_

"_Hmm. Polite, if not a little flowery. Very well. I only wish to ask you to inform myself as well of your findings for the report Louvre asked you to make. Of that man, most especially."_

_Galatea blinked. "Do you know of him?"_

"_I know of him, yes. We are, well, adversaries in a way." Herman's smile grew a little wider. "I have heard word about him from Rabona. Perhaps you should start your search there."_

"_The Holy City," she repeated. "Very well. I thank you for your help."_

"_Just do your job," he said as he turned. She watched as he melted into a wall._

My job.

* * *

_My job, that involves keeping track of a saint of the Holy City as he traverses the world saving people from monsters._

There were times when she learned of things that seemed beyond her position, even as the highest-ranking active warrior of the Organization. In her memory, the times when she learned of the names behind the Organization, and of what lay beyond the waters of the world were among those times. Her yoki sensory abilities made her a particularly useful pawn, but a pawn nonetheless. Expendable.

Still, she had never questioned until now.

_Why would the Organization need me to keep track of a saint?_

It had been extraordinary, for sure. She had seen him fight from the distance alongside the warrior named Clare, the number forty-seventh. The carriage they rode had been ambushed by strange yoma hidden partially beneath the earth like sleeping beetles. Galatea herself nearly intervened in the fight when the monsters first emerged.

When the carriage riders stood their ground, she watched instead.

Clare had been as she expected: trained, but slow in the way warriors that lacked a talent in yoki empowerment were. There had been nothing special about Clare as a warrior.

Then there was the man with her, wielding a plain sword of sturdy, Rabonian make that cut apart the shell of one of the yoma as if it were warm bread. And when she witnessed him cut them apart with the fluid ease of a warrior, she was convinced. Watching the actions of forty-seven was not the purpose of her observations after all. The subject was the Saint himself.

It made little sense. The Saint seemed to have goals aligned with that of the Organization: the defense of the people against the yoma. Instead of keeping him under surveillance, the Organization should have made contact with him to form an alliance. That they had not only added to suspicion to the veil of secrecy they possessed: what would a group dedicated to stopping the yoma have to hide?

Galatea recalled approaching the Saint one night:

_He held a guarded stare, his eyes flickering past her to look for something further than the light the flames of the campfire reached. "Who are you?"_

_She raised her hands and smiled affably. "I mean you no harm, I assure you."_

_She kept her own eyes away from the sword at his belt even when his hand hovered over the grip. She focused on the subtle shifts in his expression, showing his inner conflict. "I know you've been following us. I can only be wary of someone with a need to spy on us."_

_Clare watched from beside the fire neutrally. "You are?"_

"_Number three, Galatea. Well met, number forty-seven. You've picked a nice companion to stand behind."_

_Galatea's gaze wandered to where the carriage was parked beside the road. The horses were drinking from a trough of water retrieved from a nearby river. One tasted a piece of salt lick. Brushing the coat of a reddish horse was a young girl with red hair braided to her shoulder. A boy, thin and brown-haired, peeked out from the cover of the carriage with his practice sword in hand, sweating. She made sure to smile more pleasantly in his direction; the boy blushed and pulled himself behind the vehicle._

"_Speak," the Saint said._

"_Peace, Saint. You need not be so guarded. I will not hurt you." She drew her sword and set it on the ground. "I only wanted to speak with you."_

_The Saint relaxed a little. His hand never left his belt. "About what?"_

"_Forty-seven," Galatea called. Clare regarded her silently. "Why is it that you have chosen to follow this man?"_

_The way Clare spoke slowly called to attention how she was choosing her words carefully. It was as if she were purposefully concealing information. "Shirou is the Saint of the Holy City. The gods bestowed upon him their powers." Galatea noticed how the Saint, Shirou, shifted as Clare spoke. "I wished for a blessing from him. He requested that I prove my worth beforehand. We are traveling together so he may learn of my motivations, and judge accordingly."_

Powers from the gods,_ Galatea contemplated. _

_She was reminded of Herman._

"_The Organization knows what you are doing," Galatea said. "I am to report to them about your actions. As well as those of the Saint accompanying you."_

"_What is this Organization?" the Saint asked._

"_Is the Saint so uninformed? Know that we warriors roam the land to slay yoma. The Organization is what governs us," Galatea recited. "It is not something many think about, or hear of. They believe we are a phenomenon that somehow sustains itself without guidance. They are wrong."_

"_It's a secret, then? This Organization is purposefully keeping people in the dark about them. Why do they? All you're doing is killing yoma, there's no need for you to―"_

"_Fear." Eyes turned to Clare. She continued as she stared into the fire. "They fear us. To protect them and ourselves, we tell them nothing. If they knew of the Organization, they will search for it and destroy it to prevent more of us from existing. They fear us half-yoma, after all. And to defend itself, the Organization will fight back―and slaughter them. To prevent such a thing from happening, the Organization remains hidden."_

"_And now you know, _Saint of Rabona_," Galatea said. "What will you do?"_

_He shut his eyes, frowning. "I understand. I don't like it, but I'll keep quiet. I think there is more that you aren't telling me. I won't ask anything else… except this," he opened his eyes. "Do you know of a man named Herman von Grimm?"_

_Galatea hesitated._

"_You do," he said. "Where is he?"_

"_I cannot tell you," she answered. "I am not―"_

"_He is dangerous."_

"―_of a position to tell you. I do not know much about him, either. You will need to find someone who can talk to you his location. That place has many warriors, trainees, and their handlers―perhaps one of them will suffice." He was listening closely. "It is admirable that you are willing to risk your like to this extent for the sake of others, but not everyone may appreciate it. I implore you: do as you think is best, but be careful. As you continue your journey, you may draw the attention of dangerous beings."_

"_Dangerous beings?"_

_Clare spoke. "The Abyssal Ones. Powerful yoma. Though I do not think you will have too much trouble… they are long-lived. And intelligent."_

_Galatea nodded. "And not all warriors are as agreeable as I am."_

"_I don't understand what this has to do with Herman," he muttered, frowning. "Are you saying he can bring me that… kind of…?" His eyes widened. "I see."_

"_Be careful."_

"_I understand. I will. Thank you."_

_Galatea smiled. "It would be a shame if a _Saint_ would fall to such scheming, wouldn't it?"_

And perhaps, _she mused,_ perhaps I should follow my own advice.

* * *

"But it is never so simple," she muttered, brandishing her sword.

Ichor spilled from the gash on the fleshy shell of the egg buried beneath the farmlands of the village she stayed at. The villagers would never know. As the egg shriveled and caved in upon itself, Galatea wiped her sword with a dirty rag. The yoki of the egg dissipated when it died.

"I cannot let myself become a pawn for their scheming. Not me." After sheathing her blade, she fixed her long, blond hair and checked herself for damage.

Her armor was clean save a small patch of a yoma's blood on the right ankle of her linen leggings. Unacceptable. As one of the strongest warriors, she required a certain perfection to her appearance. Not like the weaker ones that struggled to make by. Her fellow warriors needed to believe she was untouchable. If she was not, then how could they persuade themselves to try harder?

Grumbling, she raised her head and pushed yoki into her eyes. Her vision sharpened drastically, allowing her to see a farther distance than humanly possible.

This was one of the reasons why she was the number three, God-Eye.

She saw in the distance, beyond the sparse trees and long plains, tracks that suggested Flora had followed her advice and had gone west in pursuit of the Saint. In another direction, Galatea saw villagers from the local town go about their daily lives. And then there was a stream, a place she could clean her leg.

But before she could leave in that direction, a presence made itself known nearby. Galatea drew her sword instinctively, and froze when she met another silver eye.

"Rafaela."

Another warrior, like herself, made herself known. Whereas Galatea had a tall stature and fair beauty, Rafaela was rugged, with short, uneven hair and a scar over an eye. But that didn't matter―it was a superficial comparison at best. What bothered the God-Eye the most was that she could not detect her fellow warrior. Half-yoma warriors could empower themselves using the demonic influence of the yoma flesh in their bodies. It made them the fighters capable of challenging monsters that devoured human flesh.

Number five lacked yoki.

"Galatea," Rafaela greeted. There was a coldness in her tone that Galatea could not ignore.

"I never expected to see you here."

"I did." Rafaela drew her own sword. "You've been blacklisted."

Galatea gritted her teeth. "My own advice," she murmured. As Rafaela took a step forward, Galatea took a step back. She had no delusions about defeating Rafaela. While warriors of higher rankings tended to be stronger, the pattern tended to blur among the top five. Galatea was a powerful sensory-type, and Rafaela lacked any yoki to sense. The result would be clear. "I don't suppose you'll tell me why."

"You're in the way," she answered simply.

Then she attacked.

* * *

_a/n:_ _I've been focusing a lot on Shirou for this story, so I thought another chapter from a warrior's perspective would be nice._

_I'm also working on a RWBY story with the Dresden File vibes (which may be Spacebattles only, if I ever finish it), another chapter of _The First Pawn_, and my own original story for publication (which I've been procrastinating for a while). No promises on release dates for any of them, though._


End file.
